Expensive Sadness
by incense and peppermints
Summary: "If he just listened he'd know I'm as simple as the damn lighter in his pocket. I don't mean to be complicated; people complicate me." Angela centric. Pre book story. Very dark. On Hiatus.
1. lighter fluid

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Outsiders_. The title is taken from the song "Cheap and Cheerful" by The Kills.

Huge thanks to TaylorPaige24 for introducing me to the TV series _Skins_ and for writing _Child Psychology_, both of which provided inspiration for this piece. Thanks also for reading through a preliminary version of the chapter. :)

Warning: We'll just say this is dark, heavy shit... Certainly T-rated, and I will likely push the limits to M later.

* * *

The flame glows louder the longer I stare, brighter too, but the soft whisper of burning fuel pierces me more than the light, and the raspy clicks each time I flick the lighter tease me and beg me to release the power, to unleash the energy.

The bright light hurts; like staring into the cruel sun, it burns an image in your eyes, one that lingers.

I lift my thumb and flick again, expelling another short-lived flash of existence. Feed it, it multiplies and holds the power to destroy anything in its path. Smother it, it dies and proves completely useless. Like me, fire is all or nothing. When it spreads, it consumes everything. One second, a flame; another, ashes. It dies fast, leaving nothing but evidence it was there. Evidence it existed.

Sometimes the quick blast is all you get. A cheap thrill. There and gone, but in my fingertips, I hold the power to make it scream or end it with a simple flick. Flick, let go. Flick once more, let go. It comes and goes as I command, as I will.

As I dare to give into desire, the desire to burn fucking everything.

Because I want to, but mostly because I can. The power is mine and belongs to no one else.

I clamp my eyes shut and hold the flame, savoring the radiating heat as it torches my thumb without ever touching my skin. I feel see it without seeing it. No need to imagine. The glow against the black shadows of my eyelids is real, proof it exists. The surging pain in my thumb reminds me and fuels the outline of the flame against darkness. Everything peaceful, calm, serene...

It dies.

A sharp blow assaults my shoulder and the words "cut it out, Angel" sear through my eardrums, interrupting my moment. My eyes bolt open and lock on the perpetrator.

My brother: _Tim_.

I narrow my eyes, lift my finger off the lighter for a second to satisfy his request, and flick it again to satisfy my morbid curiosity of what he'll do if I don't listen. I hold my thumb down, staring at him all the while. Go on, give me your best, Timmy.

"I said cut it out," he repeats, and Tim doesn't like to repeat himself, so you know things are about to get good. And by that I mean, ugly. Awful ugly. And fast.

He holds out his hand. "Give it here."

I let go of the flame, but I don't hand it to him. My eyes challenge him, and I try to flick as his hand draws near, but he is quick and pries it from my grip. One second in my hands, the next in his. He robs me of my power, like pouring water on fire, Tim is always the damn extinguisher.

"You know when I tell my kid sister not to play with fire, I never thought I'd have to say it _literally_." He stuffs the lighter in his pocket. "Don't give me that look."

What look? I can think of a million different looks to give him. My favorite? The one that tells him I have another lighter stashed in a drawer in my room. My least favorite? The one the tells him I'm afraid. The one I give him? Nothing. Just a blank expression. He can read it as he wants, and I assure you he does.

He crouches down until we are nearly at eye level.

I shift my gaze down to my shiny, black Mary Jane shoes, and he tilts my chin back up with one finger, squinting his eyes to get a good hard look at me. "You been sleeping much?"

I shake my head.

"I can see that. You got dark circles under your eyes and it ain't just that shit you call makeup. Why ain't you sleeping, Angie?"

I have my reasons, ones I intend not to tell him, so I don't. The funny thing about words is their power is as all or none as fire. You can talk or not talk. Your choice. Always your choice. No one can make you. They can try, but in the end it's your vocal chords that make the sounds. So much power in a simple yes or no. Say what you want to say or shut up. I live by that.

"Angela," he growls under his breath.

He gives my cheek a light slap, which doesn't hurt one bit. If he wanted to hurt me, he could, but right now he doesn't want to hurt me.

He sighs and takes a seat next to me on the steps beside me. "One of these days, kid. One of these days, I'm gonna kick your ass so hard..."

" … you won't know what hit you," I mouth right along with him.

Only he doesn't see me, and thank god for that or "one of these days" could be today. He may think he's mighty scary, but he's just as predictable and full of bullshit as ever. Just as much my brother as he always is, and he knows it.

Tim, Tim, Tim. To many in our neighborhood, a respected hood. To me, my ass of a big brother.

I rock my head back and peer up at the sky, seeing nothing more than a bleary haze of dwindling light, impending nightfall. At first I stare so hard I see the faint outlines of the moon and the brightest stars, and when I finally blink, it fades away.

We sit in silence, me and Tim, and I prefer it this way. He knows too much about me and doesn't need to know more. That is why I'm quiet tonight when I could otherwise be loud. I could screech in his ear and whine to my heart's desire. He loves it when I do that. Almost as much as when I'm silent.

A moment later he lights up with _my_ lighter, and I watch him blow puffs of smoke into the night air each time he exhales. His chest rises and falls at a semi uneven interval, telling me he's nervous about something. I could ask, but he probably won't tell me anyway, so I keep my jaw set and locked, offering him a sympathetic glance when I can. Contrary to what some may think, I do care about my brother, more than the world will ever know.

"Want one?"

I nod. Of course I do. He only now has the courtesy to ask?

He lights it for me, no surprise, and I snatch it from him just as fast and press it to my lips. I take a drag and hold the breath in. I like the way warm smoke sits in my lungs before I exhale. I love the way it suffocates and calms at the same time, like life and death in one breath. I close my eyes and breathe out. When I open them, Tim stares at me.

He studies me with puzzled eyes, and the longer he stares, the more frustrated he becomes. I confuse him. I know I do, and I know he'd give anything to figure me out. I hear him say it sometimes, so I know it's true, and the funniest thing is he would understand me if he listened. If he just listened he'd know I'm as simple as the damn lighter in his pocket. I don't mean to be complicated; people complicate _me_.

He shakes his head.

That supposed to mean something? I lift both eyebrows.

"Shit, why is it that when I want to shut up, you scream at the top of your lungs, and when I want you to talk, you shine me on like a stubborn little shit?"

_Because that Tim is irony. _I roll my eyes. Stubborn little shit … Of all the insults, he picks _that _one. So clever. So juvenile. Tim isn't much for irony or anything that fucks with the general order of his clear-cut universe. Tim is the least creative person I know. He makes the rules, you fall in line, or he kicks your ass. That's how he operates, how he always has operated, and how he always will operate.

"Why?" he demands.

I suck in more smoke, relish the taste in my mouth, and blow it out in a tiny, slow stream.

I close my eyes, but he won't leave me alone.

"Angela."

I turn to him, peer into his eyes, and notice a small glimmer of desperation. He tries, tries to understand, but he tries too hard. I look back at my cigarette and roll the small cylinder between my fingers. The ash builds on the tip and I flick it away, watching the gray specks fall. "Sometimes," I speak slowly and deliberately, "Sometimes I think the only thing keeping me alive is the desire to die."

Tim stares at me, the same baffled expression he usually gives me. "Don't _say_ shit like that, Angel."

My eyes flit away, and I draw the cigarette closer to my lips, aware of the tension in my throat, aware of the effort it took to speak.

I hear annoyed sigh, but Tim remains quiet. I scare him more than he scares me. I like to think about that until I realize it makes me an awful human being. Then tension grows, so I stab the cigarette out on the cement and get up to put us both out of our misery.

Two steps forward, and Tim pulls me back by one wrist. "Hold it."

_Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you_, my brain screams. I just want to go to bed. A simple, humble request is all, and I do my best to convey it when I stare.

"You gonna go to bed like a good little girl?" he asks me. "I ain't lettin' you go unless you go straight to bed."

Yes. God yes. What the hell did he think I was gonna do?

I nod once. Not bullshitting him. Not this time.

"You better not be lyin' to me."

I answer that with a glare and shake my head. If I wanted to lie, it could be so easy, but I only lie when he least expects it and tell the truth when he expect me to lie. I don't do it on purpose. I hate to lie, especially to him, but it's the only way to keep my secrets secret.

He gives me another hard look. "Alright, go on then."

He releases my hand, and I propel my feet one in front of the other at a natural pace, through the front door, through the living room, and finally up the stairs to my room at the very end of the hallway.

I wedge a sock between my door and the floor, so the door won't rattle if the idiots make noise, and sit on my bed, fully aware of the four bare walls around me, the peeling paint, the musty smells.

The sounds start to come, my mom's shrill voice the loudest and clearest. Earl's deep yell lashes back in obvious frustration. He deserves every scolding, every insult she hurls at him, and I smirk in smug satisfaction until I hear the hit. Not her hand connecting with his face. The other way around. I know from the way she gasps and finally the soft cries.

And approaching footsteps up the stairs... I bury myself under my covers and shut my eyes firmly. If I sleep or pretend to be, he won't bother me.

I hold my breath until the footsteps stop and never reach my door. The fight is over. Just one hit this time. Is it depraved to consider it a blessing?

When all is quiet for a very long time, I get up and open the middle drawer of my dresser. Under piles of crumpled clothing is another lighter. I reach for it and sashay back to my bed where I fall back on the mattress. The squeak of the springs resounds throughout the room and floorboards creak beneath me.

I lift my hand high in the air and flick, smiling at the flash of instant light.

The fire is back, alive, but when I remove my thumb, it dies.

When I die I will die as fast.

I refuse to fade.

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Please review!


	2. spiders on the ceiling

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

AN: Thanks once again for the reviews everyone! I appreciate them a ton, and more would simply be fabulous. I hope this chapter doesn't drag too much. Exciting things planned for the next chapter, I promise!

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Clutching the unlit lighter in my hand, I stare at the ceiling for a long time, maybe an hour, counting dots, tracing cracks with my eyes, watching a spider take its sweet little time crossing one corner to the next. That little black dot grabs and holds my attention. Why is it here? Will it spin a web? Maybe swivel its way down to bite me?

Several minutes of staring lead to boredom and boredom leads to curiosity. I hoist myself up until I stand on the bed and extend my finger as far as I can reach, tricking the spider into crawling on me. The eight little legs tickle across my fingertip, and I collapse back down, the spider quickly scurrying its way down my finger and across my palm. As I sit I observe the tiny creature, wondering what it thinks of me. Most girls I know fear spiders, but my large body compared to its small, easily hidden one should alone assure me I have nothing to fear. Its venom may be poisonous, but aren't humans capable of killing each other too? So why... Why should I fear a worthless spider when interacting with people poses a greater risk to me... People are insane. I should know, considering I think about shit like this.

I let the spider crawl from one hand to the other but it never once bites me. Maybe it doesn't realize something big and powerful could kill it any second, and I laugh on the inside wondering if I should do just that: kill the spider. Do the dirty work most girls _scream_ at their boyfriends to do. Kill it. Kill the small innocent thing because I'm bigger and capable. I suppose the most humane way to dispose of a spider is to simply trap it in a jar and release it outside, but does this piece of shit spider deserve my mercy? Maybe. I could let it do its spider business, and we could coexist as roommates. Maybe it'll spin pretty webs to be wall decorations, or maybe I could kill it.

I _could_ kill it.

My eyes glue to a broken pencil on the nightstand, and I smirk. I will kill it.

I grab the eraser half of the broken pencil, let the spider crawl off my hand unto the rubber tip, pick up the lighter in my free hand, and torch the damn thing without a single afterthought. I stare, careful not to blink. If I blink I might miss the short-lived struggle between the spider and the fire. The spider makes a break for sanctuary, but before it can reach the metal clasp, the flame wounds it. Soon it shrivels up and dies on the burning rubber. Nothing left but a black speck, and soon the black speck turns into ash. What a sick, sadistic person I am to kill a little old spider. If I can do this, what else can I do?

The rubber burns a long time, releasing a terrible yet beautiful smell. This flame looks different than the lighter flame. The lighter has a purer, cleaner gleam. It gives off less smoke. It's more controlled, less haphazard. For a second I contemplate holding the pencil until it burns up completely, but when I glance over my shoulder, the old glass of water on the nightstand calls to me, demanding I put the fire out before trouble comes my way. See, I realize these are bad things. I realize I'm some kind of a nutcase, and sometimes if I think about it really hard, I think that makes me sane. Just to realize I _am _insane.

The fire begins to bypass the metal clasp connecting the eraser to the wood, and I glance at that water glass once more. With a heavy sigh, I oblige, dropping the pencil tip first into the glass. It goes out as fast as I drop it.

Spider dead and pencil torched, I turn my attention back to the lighter itself. A simple flick produces the same destructive flame, but this flame looks even more powerful than the burning eraser, and my eyes circle around the room, taking in each item I could destroy. Some things are so small I could drop them into the water glass along with the pencil. Others are so large I'd burn the entire house down by lighting one tiny inch of the item. I won't. I won't burn anything more than the spider and the pencil it happened to be on tonight, but the thought entices me. The thought that I could unleash so much damage upon this house and its contents with the simple lighter in my fingers overwhelms me in ways no one else could understand.

I put the lighter back in the drawer, deciding I've had enough fun for one night.

When I climb back onto the bed, I roll over and shut my eyes, willing sleep to come. I didn't sleep last night or the night before that, so it should be easy now, but nothing comes easy. Only the flame comes easy when I flick the lighter, and everything else is hopelessly difficult.

I breathe in, breathe out, and sigh. More noise assaults my ears. Not my mom or stepdad or even my dumbass brothers. No, outside, the stray cats are fucking each other's brains out again.

They screech in loud, sharp meows that make me want to gauge my ears out.

It's mating season in the back alley—sounds a like murderous rampage or a baby squealing at the top of its lungs, and all those horny felines get what they want twice over. Damn, I admire that intensity. They have orgy after orgy and shamelessly strut around like kings and queens the next morning. They act behave like beasts and resume being cuddly creatures in no time flat. It makes you wonder what humans do in the dark. If we insist on being so secretive and embarrassed about it, it must be pretty goddamned sinful, even more sinful than cat sex.

I don't know about the rest of the universe, but I just torched a spider for absolutely no fucking reason at all. Must mean I'm capable of horrible, horrible things.

Footsteps approach again. You can hardly hear them above the cats, but they draw nearer and nearer, and I listen closely. Too heavy to be my mother's, too light to Earl's, so they must be Tim or Curly's. My money is on Tim. I don't know where the hell Curly is tonight, and my guess is I don't want to know.

When the door creaks open, I'm right.

Tim steps in, a perturbed look on his face. "You said you were goin' to bed."

Bed, yes, and in bed is where I am.

"How many nights is it now? Three?"

I roll my eyes to the ceiling and sigh. The record is four. Anything below that seems reasonable. Tonight, we are going on three, and if I'm lucky, I will sleep, but if I go another without it night, I will survive. I survived four once. I can survive it again.

He takes a few steps forward until he is standing at the foot of the bed. He glares down at me, arms folded across his chest, as though his intimidation will scare me into sleeping.

It won't.

Nothing can.

I shoot up and glare at him. I have no control over it; I either sleep or I don't.

Control would be nice. I wish I could control my sleep as fluidly as I do the lighter, but sleep depends on so many factors. A simple flick can't produce it.

He sighs and walks around to where I am, taking a seat on the bed. He pinches his brow and after a moment of deep thought pivots to face me. "Why can't you sleep, Ang?"

When I don't reply, he clenches his teeth and repeats it louder: "Why can't you sleep?"

"I want to sleep, but the world won't let me," I say, almost catatonic in my speech. Not the answer he wants, but the only one I can give him right now, so it will have to suffice.

"The world won't let you? What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" He doesn't yell, but you can hear the anger behind his tone. It scares me. I don't want it to, but it does.

I hug my arms around my legs and stare at a wall to avoid his gaze, but Tim is far from done in his outburst. "Enough of this philosophical bullshit. I've had it up to here with that. Give me a real answer, damn it, or so help me..."

My window calls to me. If Tim weren't here, I'd climb out it and down the drainpipe...

"_Angela._"

I might fall, but the drop to the grassy ground is small enough it wouldn't kill me...

"Angel, I swear..."

I could leave this house and...

"Answer me, damn it!"

… just wander around the streets of Tulsa aimlessly until ...

He slaps me without warning. Hard enough I know he meant to hurt me this time. My hand touches my face in an instantaneous reaction, and I give him a dirty look.

"Answer me," he growls, but I ignore it.

I lie back down and shove my face into the pillow. As I do the sting reemerges across my cheeks, and it almost brings me to tears.

He says nothing. No more demands. No apologies. Not a single word about it, but I know he's still here. I can feel the mattress dip lightly from where he sits, and it tells me he is near. I breathe faster, but I won't break down in front of him. I haven't shed a single tear yet, and I won't.

A long time passes. I keep my head in that pillow. It gets harder to breath with my face smothered like this, but I refuse to look at Tim and acknowledge him.

"Angela," I hear him say my name again, his voice less tense and more concerned. "God, you know, sometimes I swear you do this shit on purpose... but then other times, I just … I don't know."

I bite into the pillow to relieve my frustration. I could punch him, I want to punch him, but I bite the pillow harder and harder, trying to get ahold of myself.

I feel Tim's hand on my back, and I don't know how to handle the sensation. Tim is awful at affection, so why is he even trying now? He runs his hand up and down my left shoulder, and the gesture makes me want to cry more than when he slapped me.

I want to cry because I have to remind myself I'm pissed at him.

"Angel." He stops rubbing my shoulder for a moment, but the weight of his hand still sits there. "This shit's gotta stop. You _need _to sleep."

_And you need to leave_, I almost bark at him, but instead, I shake my head in the pillow.

"Yes," he insists. "I hope your eyes are shut."

I shake my head again, even though they are.

Why he has enough persistence to deal with this is beyond me, but we continue on like this for a long time. Sometimes we are both silent. Other times, he says something, and I respond to it by nodding or shaking my head, but eventually, despite my effort to fight it, I do fall asleep, and by some miracle, I stay asleep.

When I wake up, I feel terrible. Tim is long gone, but that bastard won his battle, and I hope he's happy. I _did_ want to sleep, but not because he was there, damn it, not because he was there.

I roll off the bed, throw on some clean clothes, and rush off to the bathroom before somebody else can steal it. I look the door and stare at myself in the mirror. Yesterday's makeup is smeared all across my face, scolding me for forgetting to remove it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. I blame Tim. Tim's fault, _yes_. Somehow everything is his fault, and I sigh, wetting a washcloth under the sink. A small amount of soap and two minutes of scrubbing later, the makeup is gone, and I have a blank canvas to paint now.

I could skip makeup, sure. Some days I go without it, but today will not be one of them. I feel more comfortable under it, more myself. I go into some kind of a trance as I apply it, and I take the same to perfect each crevice of skin artificially.

Several minutes go by, and when Curly bangs his fist against the door, demanding he has to take a leak, I waste even more time. Eventually I unlock the door, and he damn near kicks it open, shoving me out into the hallway. I land on my ass and debate screaming a carefully selected insult at him, but I just get up, brush myself off and head downstairs.

"Morning, baby," my mother greets me as I venture into the kitchen.

I sit down, and she sets a plate in front of me.

I'm not hungry, so I stare at it and bite the insides of my cheeks until I taste tiny droplets of blood.

She props a hand on her hip and rolls her eyes down to the toast. It looks burnt. Slathered in butter and jelly, it looks revolting, but we don't waste food around here. I pick it up and sink my teeth into it. The blood tasted better. I chew slowly and shift my eyes back to my mother, raising an eyebrow as I do.

She backhands my arm in response. "You behave yourself today, you hear?"

I nod once. She'll scold Tim and Curly too. You can't fault her. She tries to be a good mother, even if she's downright horrible at it.

"You hear me, young lady?" she repeats herself, and I nod again.

She senses disrespect from me. I can tell by the way her eyes narrow and lock on me, like I'm a bug and she's the exterminator.

She shakes her head. In an attempt to ignore her, I slurp down the glass of milk next to the plate and wince when she backhands me again. "Angela Grace, I raised you to act like a lady."

A lady, huh? That's hilarious... Ladies are supposed to be quiet and docile. They stay home, clean and please their husbands to avoid certain confrontation. They do as they're told and never, ever under any circumstances complain. I'm no lady, and neither is she.

Earl wouldn't deserve a lady for a wife or a lady for a stepdaughter.

And if she wants me to be a lady so bad, she should be happy I'm silent this morning, but the longer I refuse to answer her verbally, but more frustrated she becomes.

Eventually she gives up and goes to work.

I smile at my victory, and someone yanks a fistful of my hair. "Hey, don't be such a little shit to her."

I recognize the voice as Curly and wonder why he should care when he talks back to her more than me and Tim combined. I take it he's still irritated I fucked with his morning piss.

He sits down in the seat across from me and glares. "A hello might be nice." He devours the toast our mom left out for him and grabs what's left of mine. I reach out to slap his hand, but he pulls away fast, and I end up hitting the table. "I wouldn't expect a good morning or anything that polite from the likes of you, but hello, or I dunno, maybe a hi might be nice."

I roll my eyes and decide to greet him in another way, by flipping him the bird.

I hold my middle finger in front of his face until he slaps it away, and then I get up to leave.

"Hey, wait up, Angel."

I sling my purse across my shoulder and pause in front of the door, shaking my head at him. Does he really expect me to walk to school with him?

He garbles something through a mouthful of food, but I don't stick around long enough to figure out what he said.

I'm not going to school anyway; I have other plans.

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If you're interested in more Angela fic, go read TaylorPaige24's Angela story. I promise you'll enjoy it if you've enjoyed this!


	3. the art of chemical dependency

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

Warning: This chapter isn't too bad, but the next will be. Pretty much anything that would make a TV show MA probably applies to this fic. So ... read at your own risk.

* * *

So when I said I have plans, I lied. I don't have plans. I have no clue what the hell I intend to do today; the only thing I can say with absolute certainty is that it will not involve me going to school.

I imagine all kids hate school to some degree. Just the concept of homework and teachers in general doesn't sit well with the average student, but I take my hate to a new level. Since the moment I set foot in a classroom I knew it wasn't for me, and I've despised it ever since.

The rules alone drove me crazy. Lining up in a single file line. Sitting Indian style at story time. Raising your hand to request permission to do just about everything. I remember first grade vividly. They asked me if I could count to ten. I shook my head. Ten was insulting. No, I couldn't count to ten; I could count to a thousand, so why were they wasting time making me go through the basics? ABC's, counting, cutting and coloring in the lines... I withdrew. I did nothing, said nothing. Just sat in my desk and stared at them, like I had no goddamned clue what they were talking about, even if I understood every word they were saying. I didn't have to prove I was capable of anything. I knew I could do anything they asked me, but I didn't, and by the end of the year, they held me back on the grounds I was "slow" or "mentally retarded" as they told my mother.

She protested those accusations bitterly. Boy, I thought I'd never seen her as hacked off as when she marched through the school doors and handed those teachers asses to them. Her refusal to believe I was stupid might've been the nicest thing she's ever done for me, but it didn't matter. I was still held back, and when I'm of age, I'll drop out, and no one will notice or care. For the past couple years I've been that kid they pass so I can be a new teacher's problem by the time the next school year comes around. It's worse for me, you know. Any teacher who's had to put up with my brothers' nonsense is terrified of me before I even open my mouth, and damn right I use that to my advantage.

"Angela, what're we doing?" Candy asks me, and it never ceases to amuse me how my friends think I have the answers to all of life's questions.

I roll my eyes. "Ditching … obviously … "

"Yeah, I know that, but I mean, what're we gonna _do_ all day?"

Oh, I don't know, Candace, can you just shut up for ten seconds, and maybe it'll reveal itself?

I flip around and glare at her. She stops walking and crosses her arms across her chest. "What?" She sighs so loudly, I think I hear her lungs squeal.

I imitate her sigh to berate her, and she smacks my arm. "Well, this is stupid," she insists. "You really want us to walk around all day? The hell is that good for?"

I smirk. "Lots of things."

"Like what? Look, I know we're goin' to my sister's party tonight, but what about right now? This is so boring, Angel… I think I'd rather be in school."

I turn around and keep walking. Shouldn't have let her know I was skipping when I walked past her house this morning. She ran up to me and has been following me around like a puppy dog ever since.

And she won't shut up. She keeps talking and talking and talking…

"You're not gonna make Julia come with us tonight, are you?"

I don't answer.

"I really hope not," she natters on. "No offense or anything, but I don't even know why you're friends with her. She's really dense…"

This again?

I sigh. Dense, sure, but she also happens to be the only one of my friends I actually care about. We go way back to when she first befriended me at recess. I liked her because she was quiet. If I wanted to sit there and do nothing, we sat there and did nothing. If I wanted to climb to the top of the jungle gym, she followed me to the top without saying a single word. I admired that loyalty, I still do. She knows I'm a bitch but sticks with me anyway, and that's more than I can say for a lot of people.

The rest I these bitches I could drop and think nothing of it. Candy oughta remember that. I shake my head at her and say nothing. I have a million vicious things prepared to spew in her face, but I don't have to. Candy eventually gets the hint. "Sorry, I mean, she's really nice and all, but Angela—"

I cut her off with an even icier glare. I don't need to hear the but. For the love of Christ, I _don't_ need to hear the but.

She holds up both her hands and gives me a hurt expression. "Jeez. Sorry…"

Sorry, huh? She ain't sorry. She'll be on about it again. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but give it a week and she will be. She always is.

I find a seat on a park bench. She sits beside me, her bottle enhanced hair whipping her across the face as she jerks her head towards me and sighs that infamous sigh that's supposed to implore me to give a shit about her boredom. I don't. When I stare at her right now, the only thought that crosses my mind is she should've used a fucking mirror when she put her makeup on this morning. She looks like a trainwreck: too much eyeliner on one eye, not enough on the other, uneven blush too.

She sighs again, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and offers me one. My eyes gleam, and I smile at her. Well, I guess she will be good for something today after all.

I take it, put it between my lips, and light up. I pull the flame away from the cigarette and hold it longer than I need to. I want so badly to light her stupid hair ablaze, but instead I let go and opt to be grateful for the cigarette she gave me. If I listened to all my urges, there's no telling what kind of a person I could be.

Candy lights up too, but when Candace smokes a cigarette, she doesn't really smoke it. Some people put up a real convincing act when they pretend to smoke—you know, hold the damn smoke in their mouth and exhale it without letting it reach their lungs—but Candy just looks like an idiot.

I study her, the way she sucks it in and spits it out so fast, like it might kill her if she dares savor the taste a second longer. Each shallow intake makes me sick. I wince in true pain because all I can think about is what a waste of tobacco. What a waste of precious tobacco. Even though the cigarette never belonged to me, it pains me all the time.

That shit wouldn't fly in my house. If there's one thing I learned from my messed up family it's that you don't waste smokes. Even dysfunctional families have their values, and us, well, we never put booze or cancer sticks to waste_. Period. _We are masters in the art of chemical dependency and proud of it. If my stepdad could earn a living being a drunken asshole, we'd be millionaires. Hell, even I can't escape the urge to get fucked up whenever I can, and I'm only thirteen. Truth is Tim's the only one of us with any sort of drive or ambition, but don't let him fool you. He has vices too. Everyone has their fucking vices.

Glory, if Curly could see Candy now, he wouldn't be able to watch this bullshit silently. My brother likes to brag that when he was in the reformatory, he made his own cigarettes by collecting the guards' cigarettes butts and rolling the leftover tobacco in whatever paper he could find. Now that is true desperation, not that Candy would understand if I tried to explain...

She just keeps puffing on that cigarette like it's fashionable, pushing it between her dainty lips and holding the stick between her fingers like she's the Queen of fucking England. And when she notices me staring, of course she tries to show off. She purses her lips in a small o and tries to make rings with the smoke, but her exhales look more like jumbled blobs.

She grins at me, like I'm supposed to be impressed.

I lift both eyebrows. Oh yeah, so impressed, Candace…

She grimaces and tries again, but I can't stand watching this anymore. She's wasting a perfectly good cigarette, and I could wring her neck for it. It's that fucking simple.

I sigh in a show of exasperation, and she sneers at me. "The hell is your problem?"

I say nothing and blow my smoke, smoke that actually did reach my lungs, in her face in the tiny rings she tried so hard to make. Each time the little o clouds draw near her face, her frown grows, and I consider it an accomplishment.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm friends with this girl, or people in general to be completely honest here. My best guess is she's still useful to me. As awful as it sounds, it's true; I rate everyone I know by how useful they are to me. Some might call it manipulation or the fancy term for being a bitch, but I prefer a different word: survival. See, you need to know who you can trust, if only for one thing. With Candy, she has connections, connections I refuse to live without. Candy may be an annoying sack of shit, but her sister Margo Miller has a boyfriend who can hook me up with damn near anything my little chemically dependent heart desires.

Candy smiles at me and puts out her half smoked cigarette, making me cringe all over again. She gets up, and I debate letting her walk away on her own. The rest of my day might be more pleasant without her, but that's the other thing with Candy. Her sister is damn protective of her. If I don't play nice, my invitation to the party can be retracted that fast.

"Well, are you coming?" Candy calls back over her shoulder.

I grit my teeth and get up slowly.

Candy starts walking faster, and I sprint to catch up to her.

xxxx

Candy drags me all over downtown.

I play along.

I even play nice.

I pretend I'm having a good time, but I'm not.

I hate it.

I steal a dress at the third clothing store we visit. I rip the tags of it in the dressing room and stuff it in my purse before I can think twice about it.

I get away with it.

When Candy figures out I stole a dress, she flips shit.

I wouldn't have told her, but she say it creeping out of my purse the second we reached a vacant alleyway, and Candy, being none other than her herself, asks me fifty questions about it.

Needless to say when I give her her answer, sparks fly. "We could've gotten caught, you idiot," she screeches. "That was an expensive dress. Are you an idiot? We could've gotten caught…"

I roll my eyes. Yeah, and it might've been the most exciting part of this afternoon.

"Does that mean anything to you?" she demands, and I realize she has probably said a thousand words to my twenty today.

I watch her pace. She is silent for a while, but I don't expect her to keep silent for long.

I'm right.

"Angela," she whines.

"What?" I finally snap at her. "For the love of God, what? You seriously think I give a shit I stole something? So what. I did it, and guess what? I fucking loved it."

I take a few steps closer to her. "I loved every minute of it," I hiss in her ear. "That racing beat in my heart as we walked out the door and no one stopped me. Oh_, that_ was the most… You wanna know what it was like, Candy?"

She shakes her head, but I keep talking. "It was better than grass. Better than acid. Better than sex. I _loved _it. In fact I think I'll do it again soon."

Lies. All of it lies, but I sure manage to scare the piss out of her.

"We should take it back… You can say it was on accident or something." Her voice shakes as though she truly believes the cops are after us.

I shake my head and watch her try to calm herself down.

I reach in my purse and pull out the dress. My first thought is to chuck it at her or rip it in half, but then I think of a better idea, one that'll make her shit her pants. I lift my eyebrows and reach for my lighter.

"Angela, what're you doing?"

I ignore her and light the bottom hem of the dress. The flame catches, spreading up the dress slowly, but within seconds, it gives off smoke and lots of it.

"Angela!"

She lunges forward, but I hold the lit lighter in front of her. She backs off.

"Angela, stop it!"

I drop the dress on the cement

"I'll … I'll call the cops on you!"

I stare at the dress. The flame travels slower than I'd like, but the sight really is beautiful.

"Angela!" she screams, and I realize it's gone too far.

I stomp over the burning dress to put it out before it burns up completely, and she stares at me in horror. I hope she's happy. Putting it out pains me more than it did her to watch me torch it.

She shakes her head at me, sweat dripping down her cheeks. "God, Angela, have you completely lost it?"

No more than usual, no. I pick up the burnt dress to examine it. No longer as pretty as it was on the rack, and I toss it in the nearby dumpster, all the while Candy's eyes follow me. Up and down. Back and forth. She eyes me like I'm a serial killer. I don't know what she expects—for me to pull a blade on her or something?

"You're … you're fuckin' crazy," she stammers.

"I am." I take few strides towards her and pause a moment to peer into her eyes. "And don't you forget it."

* * *

Please leave a comment or two! Please let me know you want updates. :)


	4. candace speaks

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

* * *

The giant crack in the bathroom mirror makes it hard to do my makeup, and all the while Candace bitches I take too long. "We'll be late," she says. On and on and on, she whines. Her mouth has no shut off valve. I swear she talks just to her the high-pitched squeal of her vocal chords rubbing together because it doesn't matter how boring or irrelevant; in fact, I think she prefers it to be useless in an effort to annoy me as much as humanly possible, and it works.

No longer able to stand it, I silence her with a glare.

She stares back, completely horrified; after burning the dress, it doesn't take much to shut her up, and I hope this newfound fear of me lasts forever. It would appear I injured her deeply. Her eyes veer off to the side, and she plops down on the toilet lid with a hurt expression plastered across her face.

All the better. The quiet is beautiful.

I glance over every now and then to see if I miss anything good, perhaps an Oscar worthy pout or an icy glare, but she just sits there, bouncing her legs up and down so fast it could make her orgasm.

Of course, the silence couldn't last forever. "You know somethin', Angela?"

I flip around and lift an eyebrow.

"Everyone there's gonna be in high school, 'cept us."

Wonderful. I guess that makes us pretty goddamned special then… I don't see why it matters. If I never make it to high school, why should I care if someone else did? Good for them. I hope they have a nice life, being a high schooler and all.

"Are you ignoring me?"

I shake my head without bothering to turn around. I wish. I wish I could tune out everything, but the sorry fact is I hear every word she utters. Every single goddamned word

In the corner of the mirror I see her wrinkle her nose. She always does that when she thinks too hard about anything her tiny brain can't process. "Well, if you don't answer, you _are_ ignoring me," she concludes.

I roll my eyes. The only thing my ridiculous memory is good for is regurgitating the words people think I ignore, and she's in for a rude awakening now: "We're gonna be late … We're gonna be _late_ … Angela, we are _going _to be late."

"Angela, what the hell?" she manages in edgewise, but I keep going.

"Your makeup is fine ... That's enough eyeliner. I think you should be done now. Jeez, why do you always have to do this? Glory, Angela, my sister wears more makeup than you and it takes her half the time to put on…"

"Angela!" she tries once more.

I pause for a second and catch my breath. She looks at me as though I've lost my mind and perhaps I have, but I _will_ repeat every word she's said back to me before I'm through. "If you wear this much makeup, it'll make you look like a whore. It's been fifteen minutes now…. You know somethin', Angela? Everyone there is gonna be in high school 'cept us. Are you ignoring me? Well, if you don't answer me you _are_ ignoring me." I stop and stare at her with a raised eyebrow. "Good enough for you?"

"Shit …"

Some of it may have been embellished or changed, but it was good enough to scare her at the very least. My voice feels heavy, as though I've done enough talking for one evening, so I simply nod and claim my victory silently, something she wouldn't know how to do.

"Angel," Tim's voice booms outside the door.

I grimace, wondering what the hell he could possibly want. Didn't he already stake his claim that night? He got what was wanted; I slept. He should be happy for that and leave me be for the next month.

Candy touches my arm and gives me an uneasy glance. For some reason Tim makes her piss herself even when he's hardly being scary. "Hey, I think your brother's tryin' to get your attention."

No shit, Candace. Of course he is, but that doesn't mean I'll give it to him.

Not a second later, the door bursts open, and there's Tim standing cross-armed. "Angela, I want you home by midnight," he says, staring me down with his big, scary "I mean it" face. Once upon a time that face sent chills down my spine, but if he intends to freak me out now, he best do a hell of a lot better job than that.

I roll my eyes. Who the fuck does he think he is giving me a curfew anyway?

"You heard me right." He shakes a finger at me. "_Midnight._"

Fine, four in the morning then… I pivot back to face the mirror. I'm done with makeup, but he doesn't need to know that.

He grabs my arm and grips it so tight his fingers could amputate it. "Don't give me that look."

I try to break free, but he holds firm. "You're thirteen. Why the hell would a thirteen year old need to stay out any later?"

"Why the hell should a boy your age be making curfews for his little sister?" I hiss back.

"You know damn well why." He squeezes my arm even tighter for a brief second and finally releases me.

I do know why. He's said it once, he's said it a hundred thousand million times, and it's the same words Curly and I always hear when he tries to boss us around: _if I don't, no one else will_—but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. No little sister willingly listens to her control freak older brother unless, of course, she has to, which I unfortunately do. I've tried it the hard way—believe me, I've pitched many fits and put up a resistance rivaled to the French Revolution—but it only took me a few times to figure out he truly meant it when he said he'd kick my ass. He has the power to destroy me, and worst of all the bastard knows it.

"Midnight," he barks at me, as though I didn't hear him the first twenty times. "I mean that, Angel. Not a minute later."

I nod just to speed him along, and it works. He leaves without another word.

Chances are he's gone for the night as soon as he walks out the front door anyway. Never once has he stuck around late enough or arrived early enough to enforce these "curfews" he loves so much. I imagine he wouldn't be happy if he knew I stayed out until damn near four in the morning some nights, but I imagine there's a lot of things he doesn't know that he'd be equally pissed about.

I sigh and pick up my purse off the floor.

"Can we go?" Candy damn near begs me.

The hell does it look like I'm doing?

I almost slap her, but instead, I shake my head and shove her out the bathroom door.

xxxx

My head spins from the alcohol. The world is blurry around me. No food in my system. Just booze. The dizziness and blissful relief hits faster this way, and I want that. I want it so bad, even if I wind up puking my brains out later.

Candy lingers near me anxiously. This is her house, but with her sister's wild friends here, she feels like a stranger in her own home, completely out of her element and uncomfortable as fuck. I can see it in the way she twitches and jumps at every sudden movement. Even with the record player on full blast, the sounds get to her. Maybe the drunken stupor has made me kinder, but I feel bad. No one should feel this miserable at a party. She deserves to have a good time, so I try to be a decent friend to her in the only way I know how, but by that, I mean I push the punch on her until she feels it too.

Four glasses is all she needs. After four, she giggles and dances and flirts with all the boys, but before long, she crashes onto the couch, peering up at me in disgust.

I quick grab her another glass of punch, figuring she's lost the buzz, but she looks horrified when she sees it. "You tryin' to get me drunk?" she asks, knocking the glass out of my hand and unto the floor. "You are, you bitch! I knew it all along."

I stare at the glass and its contents all over the carpet. No one saw, so I leave it as is and turn my attention back to Candy.

"Well, are you?"

I shake my head, but she won't see reason. "I hate you." She bursts into tears, running off towards her room

I chase after her.

She gets there before I do and locks the door behind her. "Candy…" I knock a few times. "Candy, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to have a good time… You looked sad, and I thought it'd help if—"

"If you got me drunk?" she finishes for me.

Well, yeah, but apparently it causes this instead. I run a hand through my hair and knock on the door again. "C'mon, Candy, we were having fun two minutes ago. What happened?"

The words I speak now are the kindest, most sincere words I've spoken to her all day, but of course she shuns me even further. "You don't care about anybody but yourself," she accuses. "Nobody else has feelings? Is that what you think?"

Yeah, that's exactly what I think … I'm selfish, rude, and inconsiderate. No one else matters but me. I bite down on my lower lip; for a second her words almost get to me, because I do care. I truly did want her to have a good time, but the effort is no longer worth it anymore. Fuck it. I can't deal with the melodrama.

I lean my back against her door and slide down it until I'm sitting. No more words. I wasted enough trying to be nice, but still, I sit here stubbornly in hopes she might come around.

She never does.

I get up eventually and wander into somebody. I jump when I realize it's Jake Willard, one of Tim's closest friends. If he's here, there's a strong chance Tim could be too.

Jake notices my panic and flashes a big grin. "Your brother ain't here … neither of them, I mean."

I smile back and twirl the fabric of his shirt around my hand, yanking him closer to me. I've had a crush on Jake since I was a little girl, since he and Tim played Cowboys and Indians in our backyard. He was always so pretty, not to mention nice to me when all of Tim's other friends were just as big of a jerk to me as my brothers were. That crush consumed my childhood, and I finally got the courage to act on it this summer. Contrary to what Tim might think, I made the first move and Jake was all too happy to oblige.

"Glad I bumped into ya," he says, slinging his arms around my waist. "This party was gettin' awful sad." He kisses the top of my head and works his way down to my lips.

He pulls away and tries to say something, but I shove my lips back into his. No. No talking. Not now. This is moving too slow for my liking.

I push him into the nearest vacant bedroom and slam the door.

"Angela, what the hell?"

He knows. I can sense the anticipation in his eyes. He knows what I want, and I know he wants it too, but it's so like Jake to try and be a gentleman.

I frown and slowly pull my shirt up over my head. I fling it at him, and he protests more. "No … No! Shit, you're Tim's little sister…"

I unzip my skirt and let it fall to my ankles.

"Oh God," he breathes, and I reach around my back to unhook my bra.

"Angela …"

I hold it in place for a second. He shakes his head at me, and I let go, letting the bra straps slide down my shoulders and finally all the way down my arms.

He stares at everything but my face. "Angela…" he says, but he can't finish his thought.

I walk past him slowly and sit on the edge of the bed.

He hesitates for a moment, and I don't blame him. My brother will do horrific things to him if he ever catches word of this. Jake will pay for this far more severely than I ever will, but temptation gets the best of him.

His hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans, and I smirk, knowing we'll go all the way tonight.

* * *

Thanks a million times for reviews! Sorry for slow updates on this and all my other stories. I just moved aaaaand I'm without internet at the moment, save for my smartphone, so posting is just a wee bit difficult.

Please, please review! It'll be a good couple weeks before I get net, and it was such a hassle to get my phone to agree to update. I'll likely say screw it without your lovely support!


	5. jake, james, and a little rain

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

Fast (and dare I say LONG) update to show my appreciation for the reviews. I didn't expect this story to receive many, so it's a wonderful surprise! I hope you'll all keep commenting. The comments keep me posting. When they die, so do I. Ha, didn't intend for that to rhyme… Anyway, I do hope you enjoy.

Warning in case we've forgotten: Uhhh, bad things. All in all, bad things. Young children, please stay very far away.

* * *

Jake screws me and leaves.

I kiss him and plead with him to stay by refusing to let go of his hands when he pulls away, but the bastard leaves. He just up and leaves, and I feel like a cheap whore.

And now, curled up on the bed, all I can think about is how cold the air feels against my naked skin. I feel more exposed now than when he was here and staring at every inch of me, but I can't find the energy to get up, to get dressed. The drunkenness no longer feels good. It feels sloppy and disgusting, and I focus on the small dots on the ceiling to keep myself from getting sick. The nauseous feeling comes and goes, the fruity aftertaste of the punch searing the back of my throat.

The door squeaks open and I jump up, holding the blanket over my breasts.

"Shit … I didn't think somebody was in here."

It's Margo's boyfriend. He gives me an anxious glance and moves to leave.

"Wait, James," I call after him.

He ignores me.

"Please don't go."

He steps in, and as soon as he shuts the doors, I let the covers fall.

He claps a hand over his mouth and mumbles something that sounds like _holy shit._

What, he's never seen a pair of breasts before? I roll my eyes and get up. I slip my panties on first and pick my bra off the floor. He watches me fasten my bra and seems anything but disappointed when I don't bother with the rest of my clothing.

I meander over to him and run a hand up his thigh with a smirk.

He promptly shoos it away. "I was hoping to find you actually," he tells me. "Just … not … "—he circles a finger through the air around me—"like this"

Half naked, he means. He only hates it because he loves it.

"I needed to get away. Margo'll make me go ape before the end of the night," he says as he pops a pill from his pocket into his mouth.

I watch, trying to decipher what he just took. He catches my stare, reaches in his pocket and extends his hand to me with a sigh.

"Guess you can share in my fun," he grumbles, but he closes his fist before I can grab it. "Wait, ain't you gonna ask me what it is?"

I shake my head. No, as long as it gets me where I want to be, I could care less what it is.

"I could be poisoning you for all you fucking know," he says, his voice irritated enough it sounds like a Tim impression.

I glare at him. I trust him enough to know he wouldn't do that. He's probably given me worse before, and the last thing I need right now is a lecture from my drug supplier.

He keeps his fist clamped shut. "You can't just take shit and _not_ know what it is."

Oh yes, I can. Especially now that he's making a big deal out of it, I damn well can. I get both hands on his fist and pry it open. "Angela," he snaps, but he makes no effort to stop me.

I knew he wouldn't. Every now and then he puts up a huge tantrum about how young I am and how wrong it'd be to give me anything, but he always gives in the end.

I take the pill and swallow it before he can say another word.

He sighs. "God, you're one screwed up broad." He gets up, picks my clothes off the floor and tosses them at me. "Get dressed."

I refuse and lie back down on the bed, grabbing him by his shirt to pull him on top of me. I just want him to shut up and do me already. And, maybe, just maybe, be decent enough to stick around after he does the deed, but damn me for picking men with morals. He shoves my hands off him and yanks my shirt over my head. "Get dressed," he repeats. "You're drunk off your ass, and soon you'll be higher than a kite to match it."

I give his cheek a light slap. _Don't be like this James_, I plead with him through my eyes. _It could be so wonderful. It always is wonderful, don't deny it, you self-righteous piece of shit._

He grabs my skirt and pulls it over my feet and up over my knees past my thighs. I smack his hands away and zip the zipper myself.

I stare at him for the longest time, completely astounded. Some boys have undressed me. Like animals, they can't rip the threads off fast enough, but none have ever bothered to put the clothes back on me. "James," I start, but he holds a finger over my lips.

"Jesus, I have a girlfriend, Angie. We can't … I can't … "He runs a hand through my hair and kisses my cheek. "Not _now_, okay?"

Why not now? I frown and shake my head at him, but he only wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. His touch makes me want him more.

He pulls away but keeps his hands on my shoulders. "I'mma break it off with Margo soon. I shouldn't be telling you this, but Christ.."

Then by all means what the hell is holding him back now? "That's good," I say. "That's real good. Maybe then—"

"Maybe," he agrees, but he sounds hesitant. "Shit, you're just a little kid."

I grit my teeth. I'm thirteen, he's sixteen, and in five years it'll make no different how old we were. "Don't say that," I hiss at him. "Just fuck me already, James. You can do what you want. Anything, I swear. You won't break me."

"No." He looks horrified. "_No_. Damn it, this is wrong. How can you not see that?"

Oh for God's sakes, I know it's wrong, but I like it. I still want it. I punch his arm and he grabs my fist, pushing it back down to my side. "No. Glory, you're so gone right now, I'm surprised you ain't puking on me."

Not that drunk... I stand up and walk a few steps to try and prove it. I get a few feet away from the bed and stumble. I pull myself up and glare at him. That means _nothing_. I'm only tired.

He sighs and lifts me back over to the bed. We lie down together, his arm around my shoulder, but that's as far as it will go. "You wanna know what I gave you?"

"No."

"Aspirin," he says anyway. "I gave you fucking aspirin."

I shoot up. "What?"

He sits up and nods. "I didn't take anything either. It was aspirin the whole damn time."

I punch him in the arm again. He shoves me away in recoil but doesn't hit back. "Why the fuck did you act like it was something then?" I demand. "You bastard. You goddamned fucking bastard."

"You got quite a mouth for a broad, Angela. Anybody ever tell you that?" He stands up and peers down into my eyes. His gaze stings. "You shouldn't take shit without knowing what it is. Kind of scares me to think you'd actually do that."

I cross my arms. "Well, why the hell should you care? You're only my friend's sister's soon to be ex-boyfriend."

He wanders towards the door and almost leaves me sitting there alone on the bed, the same way Jake did, only he never screwed me. He couldn't even give me that. His fingertips reach the knob and he turns back. "You should go home. Your brother'd be real hacked if he knew where you were."

I roll my eyes. Yeah, like Tim's even fucking home.

I lean back into the bed and stay there several minutes. I may just fall asleep here and sleep all the way through morning, but I hear another voice outside the door—female and loud. "Angela!"

Margo swings the door open and rushes up to me. I press my hands to my forehead. My head hurts, and the world spins, but she still screeches in my ear. "You wanna explain to me why the hell Candace has spent all night crying her eyes out in her room?"

I sit up slowly and glare at her. Not especially, no, and that's when the blow strikes, her hand across my face.

I grimace from the impact.

"Why?"

I take a second to catch my breath, but another slap comes, damn near knocking the wind out of me. Before I can recover from hit number two, she grabs me and hurls me towards the door.

I stumble to the ground and she kicks me in the shin once. "Get out."

I get up so fast I almost tumble over again. I stagger, and when I finally catch my balance, I lunge after her.

James steps between us. "Leave her be, Margo."

We share a look for a few moments. Margo takes a step towards me, but he holds her back. "Go home, Angela."

I glare James and then directly at Margo, the perfect comeback on the tip of my tongue, just burning to be said. "He's gonna break up with you because he wants to fuck me."

And now the beautiful aftermath.

I turn and walk away, listening for the uproar behind me. I hear footsteps charge towards me, but James stops her. "Don't listen to her, babe. She's a pathological liar."

I smirk and stroll past them.

xxxx

I meander my way home, hugging my arms across my chest to keep warm. The world is dark and cold. Must be well past Tim's curfew by now, and he'd skin me if I knew I'm wandering the backstreets with no coat.

The booze has long metabolized, but I still feel sick to my stomach. Every so often I stop to dry heave. Each time I clutch a switchblade close in my hand just in case somebody sneaks up on me while I'm hunched over.

Tim would murder me if he knew I had it. He would murder me for a lot of things tonight, but especially this. I can see him now. He'd probably spout of a bunch of bullshit about a girl carrying a blade, but the part I don't get is why he'd agree it's dangerous for me to walk these streets alone at night, but not want me to have protection. I guess he thinks I should just stay home all the time, but sometimes you need to be happy for what you have in this life, and Tim should be happy I'm smart enough to protect myself when I do go out.

When I reach home, I teeter up the porch only to discover the front door is locked.

Shit. I rest my head against the door and contemplate my options. I could knock and face certain doom from Earl. There'd be no getting lucky this time. He lets the oddest things slide, but waking him up wouldn't be one of them. I could run for a friend's, but at this hour, it seems pointless. At a loss for anything else, I lie down on the porch and try to make myself comfortable amidst the roaring wind.

I shiver and feel warm tears pool in my eyes. Of all the things I could choose to cry about tonight, getting locked out breaks me. I wipe at my eyes. This is stupid, stupid, stupid. Nothing worth crying over, but the tears don't stop. They fall and fall and fall, and each time the air bites my skin, I debate if facing Earl's wrath might be worth sleeping in my warm bed.

Earl's predictable. I'll give him that. He never changes it up. If I wake him up, he'll grab a belt and whip me silly with it, but he stops before too long. If he doesn't, he can't tell my mother it was only discipline, and she's been taking advantage of that since the early days of their relationship. I still remember when they met. I still remember when she told us he was "dad" and not too long after started threatening us with infamous "You're gonna get it when your father gets home" speech, and the worst part was he _would _punish us too.

_Just walk in there and take it, _I plead with myself. _You've survived worse and then you can sleep in your bed_. I try to convince myself to get up for a half hour, but in the end, I lie there stubbornly. Even when it starts to rain, I don't budge. The rain begins to seep through the dilapidated porch covering, but I won't go inside, I won't.

The rain soaks me head to toe, and I can no longer feel the tears on my face beneath the wetness. The cold grows unbearable as the rain continues to fall, but eventually I don't feel it anymore. I just feel numb: mentally, emotionally, and physically.

I shut my eyes and drift into oblivion.

xxxx

I wake to someone lifting me off the porch.

I gasp and take comfort that the blade is in my hand until I realize it's Tim. He cusses to himself as he carries me inside and up the stairs. He sets me down on the floor of he and Curly's room, kneels beside me, and immediately starts barking out orders. "Curly, get her some towels and dry clothes."

I shut my eyes in an effort to pretend I'm still asleep. He pries the blade from my hands, and I let go reluctantly, realizing I'll lose the fight no matter what.

"Angela."

I ignore it.

"Angela!"

He slaps my cheek and shakes me until I pop my eyes open to glare at him. "Jesus Christ, what the hell were you doing out there? Willing your own death? And what the hell do you have this for?"

He holds up the blade, and I just stare at him. The world is too blurry and hazy to talk right now. I'd rather sleep, preferably forever, but sleep never comes when I need it the most.

Tim hits me again, a little hard than the last.

"Answer me."

I wince, but grit my teeth, refusing to oblige.

"Hey, lay off her, Tim, she's probably shaken up enough."

"Shut it," he snaps at Curly and shakes me even more. "What the hell was that about?"

He grabs a towel from Curly and wraps it around me. I grasp the ends of it and wrap it around me tighter, my teeth chattering despite my best efforts to stop them.

Tim grabs another towel and dries my hair with it, hardly gentle in his attempts. The towel pulls and tugs my hair in every which direction before he sets it down. "You're gonna have to talk sooner or later," he tells me.

"Tim, maybe we should just wait 'til tomorrow."

"Shut it."

_Shut it. Shut it. Shut it._ Curly's gonna get sick of hearing that before the end of the night…

Curly sighs and sits himself down beside me. "Angel, what happened?" He slings an arm around me as he asks, and unlike Tim, he actually waits patiently for an answer. Of my two brothers, Curly is definitely the kinder one, but only when he wants to be. He can be a real jerk too. At least Tim is reliable. I could count on him to always react this strongly if I did the same thing fifty more times; whereas, Curly might get sick of trying and fuck off before too long. Tonight I'm lucky he feels like being nice.

"I got locked out," I finally tell him.

The second the words leave my lips, Curly gives Tim one hell of a smug grin. He won the contest to see who could get me to talk the fastest, so I guess he thinks it's something to be proud about, which only sets Tim off more. "You know damn well where they keep the spare key," Tim spits at me. "You ain't a retard, so tell me, why the fuck you couldn't figure that one out?"

"Tim," Curly starts.

"Shut it, I ain't talking to you." He shakes a finger at Curly, but then his face softens slightly. He grabs the dry clothes Curly got me and throws them at me. "You're still sopping wet, you should change." He turns to Curly. "We'll step out for a second, won't we?"

Curly expels a ridiculously loud sigh and follows Tim out of the room. "Yeah, fine, whatever."

As soon as the door shuts, I change as quick as I can and toss the wet clothes into the corner.

One of them, most likely Tim, knocks on the door, and I knock back to let them know they can come in. Only Tim walks back in, and when I hear my stepfather's booming voice I know why. I give Tim a worried look. "He'll be fine," he assures me. "After the bullshit he pulled tonight, I could care less if he gets his ass kicked anyway."

Tim sits down on his bed and pats the space next to him.

I drag my feet to him slowly. He seems calmer, but the last thing I want to listen to is him chewing my ear off. "What were you doin' out there?"

I shrug.

"You honestly forget there was a spare key or something?"

I nod. I guess so. I can hardly think period right now to know what I was truly thinking. I still shake and all I want to do is pass out. I don't even want to argue with him right now, and it's a rare day when that happens.

Curly steps in and shuts the door. "In his own words, he wants us to shut the hell up and go to bed," he says, rolling his eyes. "He ain't happy. We should probably listen."

Tim nods and taps my shoulder. "Don't you think for a single second we're done talking about this, alright?"

I start heading towards my room. I wouldn't expect him to shut up about it anytime soon, but I truly don't expect it when he grabs my arm and pulls me back. "Where do you think you're going?"

I narrow my eyes. To bed obviously.

"You'll sleep here tonight," he says, pointing to the floor. "I wanna keep an eye on you. You're lookin' mighty pale."

He tosses a pillow and a blanket off his bed on the floor for me. Too tired to argue, I take them and settle myself on the floor. It's better than the porch by a longshot, but no substitute for a bed. Tim flicks the light off and we all try to sleep.

For several minutes, I lie awake. I roll over several times, the hard surface making my already achy body ache more. I cough a deep cough and hope I haven't truly made myself sick. Tim flips the light back on and peers down at me. I can't tell if he's annoyed I'm making noise or concerned.

"I can't sleep on the floor," I say, almost a whine.

He scoots over on the bed and motions for me to take the space he vacated.

I grab the blanket and pillow and give him a funny look, questioning if he really means it.

"Just tonight," he says, and I climb onto the bed.

He draws an imaginary line down the bed with his finger. "My side, your side, alright? If you just so much as breath onto my side, I'll shove you off the bed, got it?"

Yeah, yeah, whatever. I nod and lie down, curling myself into a tiny ball.

Tim pulls the covers over me, and I shut my eyes, finally able to fall asleep.

* * *

Aw, look at those Shepards being half-assedly nice to each other… BTW, if you recognized James's name from some of my other stories, that wasn't coincidence. ;) I have to keep a straight universe or I get confused ridiculously fast, so yes, the characters are the same as in my other stories. Please review!


	6. bullshit dreams

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

AN: Thanks all for reviews! I appreciate them a ton.

* * *

I have this dream sometimes when I sleep, especially if I drink a lot or otherwise am real out of it. I must be two or three; old enough to stand but not without teetering over. A man who looks a little like Tim does now, the man I presume is my real father, holds me close in his arms. He talks to me. It sounds like garble. Every time I dream this dream, I try to listen, try to pick up on what he's saying, but I never can.

I feel as stupid and vulnerable as I would as a toddler, completely useless for anything other than throwing a tantrum, but it's a good dream. I don't know why, but I'm drawn to that man, and when I wake up, disappointment overwhelms me.

Tim always says our father was a horrible human, but all I can ever think about is this dream.

Tim might be right, he remembers more than me, but I remember the night Dad left too, or rather the night we realized he was gone for good. He never announced it. He just up and left. I cried a lot that night. I bawled myself to sleep, so I must've liked him, but maybe it's all bullshit.

After all, I only dream that dream sometimes. Most of the time, I have nightmares. Nightmares so real and tangible, but by the time I wake up, all that remains is fear.

A blast of ice cold water hits my face.

My eyes burst open and I gasp from the shook. Tim smirks at me, holding a now empty glass in his hands. It doesn't take long to me to put two and two together. That shithead. Must've been on purpose too—to make a point about last night and where I ended up, or something like that at least. I cross my arms over my chest and glare, but I refuse to sit up or speak to him.

I shiver from the cold, and it only amuses him more. "What?" he says, tossing the last few drops at me. "You didn't seem to care if you got wet last night. Shit, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you wanted to sleep out there in the rain and cold."

_Yeah, Tim, and you had to go and fuck with my plan. You always do_. Honest, on some level, it was a relief he found me. Maybe I unconsciously wanted that the entire time, but freezing to death wouldn't have been half bad either.

I clench my teeth and roll over, purposefully drying my face in one of his pillows. Unfortunately it already is wet and I throw it on the floor in favor of the other one.

"Up," he commands.

I shake my head face down in the pillow, but Tim never gives up. He'll force me to sit up before he walks away. Tim has no patience for anything, especially me; in about three seconds, he'll smack me and demand I quit being stubborn. Any second now. Three … Two …

And the slap hits the back of my arm, punctuated with the words, "Now, Angela."

I keep my head in the pillow and try not to let on that I still feel a slight sting where he slapped me. The pain dissipates fast—he rarely strikes hard. At least not with me. When he clocks Curly or one of their friends, he knocks the daylights out of them, but with me, it's nothing more than an expression of annoyance. Don't get me wrong; he will kick my ass if he truly wants to, but usually, it's all for scare.

"You're wasting my time." He yanks the now wet covers off me, and the cold makes me shiver more, but he keeps on talking. "I got shit to do today. I don't have time for your bullshit."

Oh Jesus, his time. Always his precious time… It if means that much, he should skip bawling me out and leave, but that would be asking too much. "Angela," he growls, bunching the back of my shirt in his fist. He lifts me up effortlessly, and I finally comply, pivoting around to face him.

Now fully seated, I pull my knees up and hug my arms over them, glaring at him all the while.

"Don't even _think_ about giving me this silent shit either..." The frustration in his eyes is surreal; enough I feel remorse I caused it, and despite my true wishes to be as irritating as humanly possible, I back down and nod.

"Where were you last night?"

"Candy's," I say, my voice hardly above a whisper, but he should be grateful I answer him period.

"What time'd you get home?"

I shrug. An honest answer, no lie. I have no clue. I remember the details of what I did—I remember that clearly—but never once did I look at a clock.

He eyes narrow. Of course he thinks the truth is bullshit, so I feed him some bullshit he might buy. "A little after one?"

His jaw twitches slightly, but he somehow manages to keep his cool. "Okay," he drawls out. "What were you doin' out that late?"

I run through last night's events in my head, trying to find something suitable to tell him. Going to a high school party? Probably no. Getting drunk? Again, no. Sleeping with Jake? Fuck no. Running into James? No, no, no, and no.

I think, real hard, as his eyes tear into mine.

"What where you doin' last night?" he asks once more.

I grind my teeth and stare at Curly's bed on the opposite end of the room. "Uh, you know, typical girl stuff," I say. "We gossiped a lot and played truth or dare."

He shakes his head. He doesn't believe me in the slightest. "Tell me, how exactly does that lead to you passed out on our porch?"

"I already told you, I got locked out."

He shakes his head again. "Were you high or somethin'?"

No, but I wish. From the expression on his face, he'd like to believe that, so I spit up a bit more truth. "Maybe a little drunk."

"A little?" he questions.

I roll my eyes. Maybe a lot if the massive heartbeat in my head tells me anything.

His eyes grow fiercer and he leans in closer to my ear. "You shouldn't be drinking, Angel," he says in a low tone, like he's trying to intimidate me. The worst part is it works, if only a little. Sometimes when he stands here, cross-armed with that frustrated scowl on his face, it scares me more than my stepdad's screaming.

"You shouldn't be drinking," he repeats and pulls away. "'Specially not if there's boys around."

Boys. Oh yeah, _boys_. Lest I forget, boys are the worst kind of evil out there as far as he's concerned. Sometimes I swear Tim still thinks I'm a virgin, but little does he know, I'd screw the same men sober. He probably knows that and chooses to believe lies.

"You best be careful, little sis."

Always "little sis" too, like he has to remind me he'd rather I still played with plastic Ken dolls instead of fucking real life versions.

"If you ain't careful, you're gonna walk yourself into a world of trouble one of these days."

I know, I already have, and I don't necessarily care.

He locks eyes with me once again, and I nod to appease him. "Go fuck yourself, Tim," is just itching on the tip of my tongue, but I hold back. I let him win. It pains me a little, conceding this argument to him. No, it pains me a lot, but sometimes I really do hate this, having him upset with me. There are days where I live to strike every one of his many nerves, but today, I just wish he'd stop talking. I hate the way his voice rings in my ears. I hate it, hate it, hate it, _hate it_.

"You done yelling at her yet?" Curly calls from the hallway.

He peeks into the room and gives me a sympathetic glance, which tells me Tim probably bitched about me earlier today.

Tim balls a fist and glares at him.

Curly sighs and walks over to us. "I think she gets it, Tim," he says impatiently. "We told Jake we'd be there by one."

I smirk on the inside at the mention of Jake. Little do either of them know, I slept with him last night. Boy, he'll be a nervous wreck today, and the thought satisfies me more than it should.

"Earth to Tim, we need to _go_."

Curly waves a hand in front of Tim's face, and Tim catches it and twists it back down. "Since when do you give a shit about time?"

Curly jerks his hand free. "Since when do you not?"

Tim smacks Curly upside the head and points a finger back to me. "Stay out of trouble."

He waits on a response from me before he leaves, and when I finally mumble "okay", he follows Curly out of the room.

Too exhausted to go to my own room, I lie back down on Tim's bed and pull the covers over me, but I remain awake. Minutes or hours pass before anyone notices me.

Mom hollers my name several times, and when I don't respond, Earl trudges up the stairs. I know it's him from the heavy steps. I pretend to be fast asleep, but it makes no difference. "When your mother calls, you listen," he bellows at me.

"Jesus, I was asleep," I grumble at him.

He yanks a fistful of my hair, and I get up before he decides to be any more of an asshole than usual.

I start running as soon as I'm on my feet. The world spins whether from a hangover or because I made myself sick last night I can't tell, but even under the weather, I make it downstairs a few seconds faster than Earl. He tries to chase me, but by the time he catches up to me, he's completely winded.

"Goddamn it, it's four o'clock," Mom screeches at me before I can say anything. "You come home late and sleep all day, just like your damn brothers."

I say nothing, which only irritates her more. Earl grabs my arms, digging his fingers into it. "Answer her," he hisses at me.

"I don't feel good," I say. "Honest, Mom, I don't feel good."

Her face softens slightly, but he looks unconvinced and squeezes my arm harder. "That sounds like a bullshit excuse to me. You give us nothin' but attitude all the goddamned time, young lady, and I'm sick of it."

He drags to drag me away, and for as uncomfortable as Mom looks, she says nothing. She never does. She always looks the other way and says Earl has good intentions when he's nothing but a fat lazy asshole with control issues.

I try to break free from him by kicking him in the shin, but he manages to keep his grip on me.

I kick him again, and that finally does it.

"You're gonna get it now."

He starts to unbuckle his belt, and that's when my mother finally finds her balls. "Earl, stop it."

He flips around and gives her an incredulous look. "She kicked me!"

"She looks pale."

"That's no excuse to fuckin' kick me!"

"Oh for Christ's sakes, you sound like a child. Get over it."

They keep bickering, and I run upstairs as fast as I can.

"Angela, you better be going straight to bed!" I hear Mom yell after me, but she goes straight back to arguing with Earl.

When I reach my room, I shut the door behind me and actually listen to my mother.

I bury my head under the pillow in hopes of drowning out their voices, but it only muffles the hollering. They bicker a long time, most likely about me, and it ends with a door slamming. At least it wasn't a hit.

A few moments later, I hear footsteps to my room again, my mother's this time.

The door creaks open slowly, but never walks in further than the doorway. She must think I'm asleep. She stands there a long time. I can feel her eyes on my back, and it makes me twitch slightly, and when I hear her cry, I almost get up to say something to her. Not sure what, but sometimes I swear she hates Earl as much as we do. She only tells herself she still loves him. I don't know what she's afraid of. Being alone? Not having money to support us? It's all bullshit.

One way or another, Tim would make sure we're okay.

I wonder for a long time if she'll try to do something remotely motherlike—hug me, kiss me, tuck me in, something, I don't know—but she just walks away. She forgot how to do that a long time ago.


	7. mommy dearest

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

AN: Thanks for reviews all! Sorry for lack of reply on my end. I really, really do appreciate your kind words, and now that I have WiFi again, I hope to send you the proper thanks you deserve. :) They are the fuel that keep me writing!

* * *

The hours pass, but I remain here, too incapacitated to count them. My head pounds a horrible beat that invades my thoughts, my mouth is dry, and the room spins round and round and round. The aftereffects of alcohol consume every inch of me. Tim would say I got what's coming to me; this is my punishment for boozing up like my small body had been doing this for decades, but Tim's a fucking asshole. If he drinks, he goes straight for the hard liquor. Just like with everything else he does, he doesn't fuck around with his alcohol; if he wants to get drunk, he _gets_ drunk, but the feeling never creeps up on him. His control issues couldn't handle that, so he of all people should understand the need to feel incapacitated. Accidental or not, I like my drunken apathy a lot, _lot _more than any human being should.

I squint to see the ceiling in the dark. A tiny bit of moonlight creeps through the window to illuminate the shadowy spaces in the room, and that's the way I like it. I hate bright lights, even when I'm not hungover; the artificial kind, that is. The sun irritates me on the odd occasion too, but the only light I can enjoy all the time is a burning flame. Something about its small beauty seems purer than the sun and all the light bulbs and flashlights in the entire world. Don't ask me why. I don't know. Truth is I don't know why I do half the things I do; I just do them. The urge takes ahold of me and gnaws on all my senses until I can't hold out a single second longer.

I can't. That's my excuse. I physically can't resist the urge to do terrible things.

I shut my eyes and keep a mental image of a burning flame in my mind to ward away the hangover. If lock on that and focus on that alone, the headache almost goes away, if only for a split second. I feel dead, numb, but I know I'm alive because the sheets press against my skin, brushing against the tiny hairs of my arms ever so slightly. Touch is real. People see or hear things that aren't real, but pain is real. You can feel pain, because you react to it whether you want to or not, and I feel this bed beneath my skin. So heavy. So fucking heavy.

I just lie there. Somebody could walk right in and stab me, and I might let them. Either that or I'd steal their knife.

I pop my eyes open, sit up, smoke a few cigarettes and put them out on the nightstand because there's no ashtray. The whole room is just a giant ashtray. I don't care anymore. The entire house is shit. Everything shit, shit, shit.

I lie back down and fade in and out of consciousness until a hand on my shoulder pulls me out of my stupor.

I roll to my side, unsurprised to see Tim.

I stare at him with reproachful eyes. He spoke his peace this morning, and I'd say I took it pretty damn well. It took every smidgen of patience to manage, but for once I did want he wanted; I kept my trap shut, listened to his lecture, and even considered what he was saying. Now, all my patience is spent. If he dares start in on me again, things will escalate fast. I refuse to tolerate more than one Tim scolding a day, but much to my surprise, he appears calm.

I wonder for a second if this is another one of those mind tricks he likes to play; Tim is notorious for keeping his cool in an effort to scare you more. He sits there like a ticking time bomb, and the wait kills me enough sometimes I provoke him just to get the explosion over with, but this time, it's different. I can't put my finger on it, but it makes me nervous, and at a loss for anything else, I keep glaring.

"Look, I just want to talk," he says curtly. "You know, I say something, you act like a normal human and say something back …"

I shake my head. All his "talks" end in him yelling at me.

"And look at you now, just gotta go and get an attitude every time I say something." His lights a cigarette and blows the smoke at me. "I could say something nice even. I could call you pretty, and you'd roll your eyes at me, wouldn't you?"

My glare transforms into a lasting scowl, and he points the cigarette at me. "See, that right there. The fuck did I say to deserve that?" He keeps puffing on the cigarette, eyeing me the whole time. "You can talk back to me without uttering a single word. It's impressive is what it is, but it fucking pisses me off, so cut it out."

I sigh and turn away.

He grabs my arm in his free hand and grips it way too tight. "You pissed I chewed you out this morning? That it? Well, you deserved that. I don't know who the hell you think you are staying out all night and drinking… I hope you enjoyed it, 'cause that's the last time you'll ever do that on my watch."

He stares at me like I'm supposed to say something, and when I don't, he releases my arm. "Well, if you're gonna shine me on, I'm out." He gets up and inches towards the door. "Just don't act surprised when somebody else tells you about Curly."

I jump off the bed and step in front of the door. "What about Curly?"

He shoves me out of the way.

"Tim, wait!" I grab his shirt sleeve and refuse to let go.

He turns back. "You gonna talk to me? As in, with actual words?"

"Yeah."

"Then sit down." He points to my bed. "And don't you even think about lipping off, 'cause after last night, my patience for you is pretty damn thin."

So many nasty things swim through my head, begging to be said, but Tim wouldn't hesitate one second to execute his blackmail, even if it concerns our brother.

I sit and glance up at him impatiently. "What about Curly?"

Tim lights another cigarette and sits down. "He got arrested." His face is as straight as a brick as he tells me, but his voice waivers.

A small pits forms at the base of my stomach, and I bite down on my lip, reminding myself news like this no longer fazes me. After all, they both get arrested frequently, and I've long accepted the fact one of them—most likely Curly—will wind up in prison as soon as they're old enough to be tried as an adult.

Everything is fine. Just another night for the Shepard children, right? Tim'll pick him up tomorrow, hypocritically chew him out for getting caught, and life will go on as usual. Why Tim is shaken up though, however slight and possibly imagined on my part, that's a mystery.

"Bad this time. He's definitely goin' to the reformatory," Tim adds, his voice laced with frustration. "Serves him right, the little shit."

A small wave of panic creeps up my throat. I shake my head and try to dismiss it. _The reformatory__, well, it was only a matter of time before that happened again_, I tell myself. "You sure?" I ask Tim and kick myself for sounding stupid. Of course he's sure or he wouldn't have said it.

"Well, when you break into a liquor store armed with a blade, it'd be a miracle if you didn't."

I swallow the lump in my throat. They could probably put him in regular jail for that, come to think of it. Wouldn't surprise me one bit with his record.

"He'll be alright. Might do him some good," Tim says.

I have no doubts. He'll be just fine. He's a tough son of a bitch, and I love him and hate him for it, but will we be okay? Me and Tim, I mean. Last night, Curly took up for me. Same this morning. He always does, tells Tim to lay off when others wouldn't dare argue with him. On first glance Curly's words never sway Tim, but I'll bet anything Tim would've bawled me out longer if Curly hadn't butt his head in.

It's a selfish thing to think about, but we need him here. We really do.

I yank the cigarette out of Tim's fingers, and he lets me, simply lighting a new one for himself.

I press it to my lips and inhale as deeply as I can, and for the first time since I smoked my first cigarette, I cough on the exhale.

Tim puts a hand on my back and rubs tiny circles. "Take it easy," he says. "Curly'll be just fine. He'll come out just as ornery as he's ever been."

I shake my head.

"Hey, they stuck me there once, and I came out alright."

_No, they stuck you in juvie, and you came out more hardened than you already were hardened. _And that's exactly what'll happen to Curly. It has before. Each time he becomes a little less like the happy go lucky brother I knew when I was small.

Tim moves his hand around my shoulder stiffly. I lean against him for a minute or two but shove him away eventually. His nice gestures are nice, but too much to take in at the moment.

He takes the hint I want him to leave well, getting up without a word. He nears the door and turns around. "We'll be fine, okay?"

"Okay," I tell him, but I'm not sure we will be.

xxxx

Just as I suspected, our usual bickering grows tenser as the days pass. Mostly because he allows me absolutely no breathing room. I can't go anywhere without playing twenty questions Tim style, and if I dare argue, he threatens to tell Mom, or worse, Earl, all our secrets, all the times he's caught me and bawled me out instead of turning me in. Part of me wonders if he means that. He can't; not when he'll start a fight with Earl in no seconds flat to keep the attention off me, but the threat works.

And when Curly's court date arrives, we can hardly speak to each other as we exit the courthouse.

Six months, a relatively lenient sentence considering his crimes. Judge must've felt there was hope for my brother after all, even if he own mother doesn't. She bawls her eyes out, engaging once again in a pitiful display over her shitty parenting skills.

The self-pity lasts days and settles into a semi-permanent scowl . Earl grows as annoyed as I do, but he knows better than to push the issue with her thriving temper. Despite the tears, she becomes more volatile than she's been years, and one night at dinner, I apparently have a death sentence over my head.

I push the food around my plate.

I say nothing. I haven't said a word all day, and she locks eyes on me. "You got a problem with tonight's meal, Angela?"

I shake my head. I'm just not hungry.

"You could say something instead of puttin' up a stubborn display about it. You're thirteen years old, not a toddler." She continues to berate me for no apparent reason at all. Does she need one? Probably not, after the years of frustration I've given her.

And of course, Tim is absent as usual. He only shows to remind me not to stay out late at night, but I have a feeling he'll skip a day real soon, and when he does, I'll get so messed up I won't know what to do with myself.

"This is ridiculous, Angela."

"Patricia," Earl says.

She glares at him, and I can't help but give him a funny look. He of all people wants to defend me?

"You said it yourself, Earl," she snaps back. "Her attitude it out of control. Before we know it, they'll put her in a reformatory too."

"Patty, she ain't done nothin' wrong tonight. Calm down."

Mom doesn't calm down. They bicker and bicker and bicker about me, and I can't stand it any longer. I whip the plate with all the uneaten food off the table and listen to it shatter, music to my ears. "Is it that hard to believe I wasn't fucking hungry?" I ask her.

They both glare at me. Mom charges at me first and drags me out of kitchen with speed and agility I didn't know she had. I lash back, but it's no use against her stubborn determination, and for the first time in years, she does her own dirty work instead of letting Earl do it for her.

She carries on like a mad woman. I wince each time she strikes me with whatever she could get her hands on—she packs more power than I thought imaginable, and I bite my lip until it bleeds in an effort to control inevitable tears.

Just when I think I can't take anymore, Earl stops her. In another first of the evening, he actually fucking stops her.

I pull myself up, acutely aware of the pain, and look at him. I find it hard to be grateful, even if a small wave of appreciation surges through me. After all, years of resentment don't resolve themselves in a single night.

Mom bats her fists at him furiously for a moment, but she gives up and settles into the same annoying crying from days ago.

"Get out," Earl hisses me, sounding like himself once again. "Get. _Out_."

He points to the door, and I don't wait a second longer.

I sprint away, leaving them to shut the door behind me.

Mom calls after me, apologizing maybe, but I keep propelling forward. This is the freest I've felt in days. No kid should feel relieved when they're kicked out, especially not as young as I am, but the cool air pelting my face feels amazing. The blast of cold keeps my mind from wandering back to events of a minute ago.

_Don't think. Don't think. Never mind the pain._

Tim can't complain about what I do next. I'm kicked out, which was out of my control entirely, and why bother getting upset when you can make the best of it.

* * *

Couldn't resist a tie-in to the book with Curly off at the reformatory... Any thoughts on where's she going? Think Tim's gonna find out?


	8. the real blanche dubois

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Outsiders_ or _A Streetcar Named Desire_.

_**WARNING**_: In all caps, italicized and bolded because this chapter is very M-rated. I will likely bump the fic to M soon, but fair warning to you all, this chapter is 110% M. Please no one hold me responsible for corrupting the world's youth…

Anyway, thanks all for the reviews! I love the kind words so much and hope you'll leave me more. :)

* * *

Somehow I wind up on a city bench outside a bar in the middle of downtown Tulsa.

My mind blanks from point A to B. Sore feet tell me I ran for blocks on end, but everything feels surreal, like a dream, blurred, hazy and out of my immediate control. My feet dictated where I went while my mind checked out, and when I sat down to rest, nothing came back, except the reason I took off in the first place and the residual pain from my darling mother's outburst.

Each time I inhale, I think of Curly. I wonder what he feels at this exact moment as he takes a breath too. Life in a reformatory has to be the opposite of the freedom I live in now. I sit here by my own will, not because some guard barked at me to cooperate. Curly never liked being told what to do; it must be seventh layer of hell for him, and I think back to the last few times I saw him, what he said, what he was doing. It feels wrong that he shouldn't be here now. I take for granted that my brothers will always be there—to be annoying or otherwise. Tim barks order after order, Curly goofs off, I somehow manage to piss them both of in something I say or don't say… One way or another, we all end up at each other's throats, but I don't know how to live any other way.

I don't. I can't imagine Tim not bossy or Curly not reckless or me not … whatever the hell I am. It works for us to be dysfunctional like this. I think it suits us just fine, but Curly had to go and fucking get arrested and tip the balance into complete chaos. I don't think he realizes just how important he is to our balance of raging emotions; I don't think he understands that Tim and I could kill each other in the literal sense and still have the best intentions. He never thinks of anything. Sometimes he says something ingenious, and others, I wonder if his brain functions period.

God, I'd give anything for a cigarette right now. Anything I can smoke, really. Just something to put me back in the mind-numbing adrenaline rush running gave me seconds ago because I couldn't get back on my feet if I tried.

The city screams around me. Everyone seems to know what they're doing, except me. I just sit here and stare at them. A mother and a young boy race past me, the mother chewing him out every step of the way. She calls him a little shit, tells him he acts like a spoiled brat, and yells God knows what else in his tiny ears, but I _know_ his pain; regardless of the angry words, that frowns speaks volumes to me.

On an impulse, I stand up and find the energy to chase after them. "Hey, lay off him," I screech at her.

She whips around, an incredulous look on her face.

I know, how dare I call her out on her parenting. I wonder why myself when I hate kids and think they're annoying, needy and all around stupid, but nevermind my hate of children. It's her and her misplaced anger I hate. "You heard me, lay off."

"Excuse me?" Son still in hand, she takes a few steps towards me, yanking him alongside her every step of the way. He winces as her fingernails dig into his arms, but he makes no sound and complies with her pulling and tugging. "Who are you to tell me what to do with my son? Why you look like a kid yourself…"

"Well, take a good hard look at me." Emotion surges through me, pain I can't suppress. "'Cause he'll be just like me someday, you cunt."

It's been a while since I called somebody that word. I heard my mom use it once when I was seven and repeated it back to her a couple days later, only to spend the next five minutes or so with a bar of soap in my mouth as she ripped me apart for having the mouth of a sailor at the ripe age of seven. I remember the frustration, so much frustration, the _same_ frustration behind the little boy's frown. Clearly her favorite words were shit and damn, that hypocritical bitch, but I did learn something that valuable day: the single worst word I could possibly call another woman. Its powers mystified me for quite some time.

Needless to say I render the lady speechless. She glowers at me; if it were legal, she might kill me, but she just turns around and walks as fast as she possibly can. Her poor son has to jog to keep up with her. Well, that's anticlimactic. If the fuzz were in earshot, I might've gotten something for that, at the very least a harsh verbal reprimand; at the most, maybe disturbing the peace or something. They give that sentence to my brothers for less, so I don't see why not, but today, my only backlash is the swarm of onlookers and their glares.

I retake my seat on the bench. They stare at me for a while, but no one ever confronts me. They all walk away, go about their business as usual, pretend they didn't see the crazy thirteen year old tell off a young mother—you know whatever they have to do to get over the shock.

Eventually others steal all the attention. On the bench across the street, a young couple engages in an extensive make out session while an elderly lady watches, probably condemning all of this generation's youth to hell. You can see the fire and brimstone hate speech in her eyes, the way she wants to cut their tongues off and smash their heads together, and each time she cringes, I remind myself to invite her into the room the next time I have sex if she thinks this is bad. She would love that, the self-righteous hag.

I sigh and ignore the people. If I could pull the plug on the world right now, I would.

When I snap back to reality, a man approaches me and sits on the bench beside me.

A complete stranger, he looks maybe thirty. "That was quite a display you put on back there." I can't tell by the tone of his voice if he's shocked or impressed.

I turn to him and flash a small smirk.

He looks intelligent, well-groomed, like he works business or something, probably has a little money, which raises the question, why is this son of a bitch even talking to me? I prove myself to be grade A certifiable, and he wants to start a conversation with me; that's pleasant. I decide right away there is no way in hell he's just a concerned citizen.

"Hi, my name's Lyle." He holds his hand out to shake mine. I look down, notice the ring, and shift my eyes back to his.

"Do you always greet a lady with a handshake?"

He gives me a funny look and pulls his hand away. "What's your name?"

"Blanche," I say. "Blanche DuBois."

His eyes flicker, and he thinks way too hard. "Is that French?"

I nod. He doesn't get it. Blanche fucking DuBois. You know, from that Marlon Brando movie _A Streetcar Named Desire_? Stella's batshit insane sister. Personally I think Stella is a much prettier name, but Blanche's character suits me far better, and this guy right here could damn well be Stanley Kowalski for all I care.

He points to the bar behind us. "I always come here after work to wind down." He has this impish grin on his face as he says it. "You new? I haven't see you around here much."

"Maybe, maybe not."

He stares at me for a moment, like he can't decide if he can handle carrying on a conversation with me any longer. "Say, how 'bout I buy you a drink, Blanche?" He puts a hand on my shoulder and tilts his head to the bar entrance. "Sure look like you could use one."

I nod, dismissing every read flag. What else would I do tonight, and how else could I get free booze?

His grin widens and he takes my hand in his, helping me to my feet so gentlemanlike.

I follow him inside and don't look back.

xxxx

So, I have a few drinks.

The bartender looks suspicious but lets Lyle buy them for me.

We drink. A lot. We chat, which mostly consists of him telling me things and me nodding. He has a wife, two kids, a dog named Kenny. I guess, he and the missus are separated at the moment. Gee, I wonder why; his charm, after all, is unmistakable.

He leaves at some point to take a leak, and in his two minute absence, I have a small breakdown, a mental crisis or something psycho like that.

Lyle, Lyle, Lyle, the thirty-one year old man I drink in a random bar with. He thinks I'm nineteen, my name is really Blanche DuBois, and—this part makes me throw up in my mouth a little—that I'm into him. As in _into_ him into him. I should get up; I should leave; I should run. Hell, I should've told him to go fuck himself instead of engaging in a conversation with him. I should've been long gone before buying me a drink was even on the table.

So many shoulds, but the damage is already half done. He comes back, the grin still there. God, I hate that grin, that evil little smirk says so much about him, his kind of character, the very reason I should toss this drink in his face and run for the hills this very second, but I don't.

I stick around, one thing leads to another, and before I know it, I follow him to his immaculate red Chevy Bel Air. It's funny; the backseat suits most guys I've been with just fine, but not him. No, he's high class, and a cheap motel room is apparently more his style. Like the gentleman he longs to be, he opens the door for me, and I step in.

As we drive off, I dream up a horrible plan.

Tonight will spiral into new low levels for me. I could say I walked into it blindly, but that'd be a lie, just like the fake name I gave him.

xxxx

He fiddles with the buttons on his shirt a long time. I know what he wants, he knows what he wants, but he won't make a move. He sits in the tiny rickety chair while sit on the bed. I stare at him. He stares back, glossing over every inch of me, and I roll my eyes.

"Sorry, it's just I don't usually do things like this," he spits out in one breath. "I mean, I don't know you and you don't know me."

Oh please, you said you go to that bar—for the life of me I can't remember the name—but you said you go there, and you asked if I was new, and you probably didn't mean new in town. No, you meant new as in you fucked a lot of regulars before.

I scowl. This impish little shit thinks he's so clever, but he doesn't know who Blanche DuBois is.

"I'm married for Christ's sake."

My head spins from his "I'm usually a real nice guy" speech. Cut the bullcrap and do the unethical things you want to already.

I mean, shut up. If you want to screw me, just shut the fuck up and do it already. No one should talk before sex. That should be some kind of a rule. No talking. Ever. Talking makes everything sloppy. The more they talk, the less I want it. Who wants words—it's the sensation that keeps you coming back for more.

I slip my skirt off and toss it on the floor to speed things along.

There he goes with the grin again, that fucking grin, and his clothes practically fall off him.

As he crawls on top, the bed creaks. He straddles my legs, peeling my remaining clothing off me. "You—" he starts.

I press my finger to his lips and shake my head.

"But—"

I slap his cheek this time, and he finally takes the hint.

He finally shuts up and does what he's wanted to do since he sat down beside me on that bench.

xxxx

We lie side by side in the creaky bed.

I have to hand it to him; for a small guy, he compensated well, but he's much less impressive than he thinks he is. His arrogance is far from sexy.

He feeds me inflated bullshit. _You were great._ _The best I've ever had_. On and on and on. The useless jibber jabber. Hard to believe he wooed anybody with this crap before.

I roll to my side and gloss my eyes over him. He looks more appealing with his clothes on.

"You know, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but my real name isn't Lyle."

"Oh," I say, pretending to sound fascinated. "Well, I know it's stupid, but I really did tell you mine. I knew I wanted you from the start, baby."

He laughs a soft laugh. If it weren't for the weird desperate married thing, I could find that laugh attractive. "It's pretty, your name," he muses. "Like the name of a movie star or something."

I nod and smile.

"Well," he sighs. "I guess I could do you the decency of telling you my real name. I mean, I really do like you, Blanche."

"No," I stop him promptly.

He crinkles his forehead into a mess. "No?"

"No." I sit up and smirk. "But whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." If he doesn't pick up on the reference to _A Streetcar Named Desire _now, he is officially stupid.

"Huh." He laughs again. "Huh. Boy, you are one strange broad."

He leans forward to kiss me. I let him for a moment and push him away before he goes any further.

He falls down into the sheets, eyes glazed over from the lingering drunkenness.

"You know," I drawl out and peer down at him. It's time to put the plan into action. My beautiful get rich quick scheme.

"While we're on the subject of honesty," I continue, "you should know I'm not really nineteen."

Panic pulses through his eyes. I watch the upset grow before I reveal the startling truth. "I'm thirteen."

He jolts up and covers himself in a sheet. He glances at my chest and averts his eyes immediately.

I stand up and put my clothes on slowly, eying him the entire time.

"You're lying, right?"

I shake my head.

"Blanche," he starts. "Come on now, this isn't funny."

"Of course not," I tell him harshly. "You just fucked a little junior high girl. How does that feel, Lyle? You do this often?"

"I'm serious." He lets out a nervous laugh. "This … just. Come off it now. We drank together, you led me on."

I tilt my head to the side and nod. "True." I bend down, locate his pants on the floor and fish his wallet out of the back pocket.

"What… what're you doing, Blanche?" he stutters.

I flip through the contents and pull out his license.

"Hey, you can't do that," he says, but he backs himself against the headboard and makes no effort to stop me. I can tell by his every mannerism, he's scared witless.

"So… Lyle"—I look down at the license—"Excuse me, _Martin_ Peterson, maybe in your little fantasy land, I did lead you on, but who do you think the cops'll believe if I tell them you, say, you raped me?"

"Jesus Christ." He sweats profusely and rubs his hands up and down his face. "This is insane."

"Relax, Martin," I assure him. "Or would you prefer I still call you Lyle?"

He doesn't answer me.

"I wanna make a deal here, Lyle." I hold up the decent wad of cash in his wallet and smirk. "I think we can make a deal, don't you?"

He shakes his head and utters a bunch of unintelligible nonsense.

"Or … I could scream bloody murder, and we'll let the cops sort this one out."

He cries now. He breaks down and bawls like a little boy. "Please," he begs me. "_Please_, I have a job. They'll fire me. You don't understand. This would ruin _everything_ for me."

"Oh, believe me, I do understand." I hold up the money again. "I want this, and we can keep this our little secret. Hell, if you want, you can pretend it never happened. Whichever you think is healthiest, but I want this."

"How much?"

"All of it."

"Can't we just call it at twenty bucks and be good?" He wipes the tears off his face and tries to compose himself. "I wouldn't even pay a hooker twenty."

I glare and shake my head.

"Okay, fifty."

I shake my head again. "All of it."

He hesitates something fierce. Why the idiot is willing to carry this much cash with him in the first place is his own goddamned problem, and now he'll pay for it severely.

He thinks for a moment. I could scream now, but that was never my plan. He thinks harder, rubbing his forehead between his thumb and pointer finger, and looks up at me, his chin still quivering. "Fine," he resigns, almost inaudible.

I toss the pants and wallet at him and stuff the carefully folded bills in my bra. He eyes me fiercely as I strut towards the door, and when my fingertips almost reach the knob, I see that ridiculous grin once more. "But I do hope you realize you're gonna be the one in legal trouble now, Blanche DuBois," he hisses at me. "You should've never told me your real name, little girl, 'cause I'm damn certain prostitution is illegal in the state of Oklahoma."

"Oh, be my guest," I dare him. "Go right a-fucking-head and tell them you met the real Blanche DuBois."

I step out the door and shut it quietly, two hundred dollars richer.

* * *

And here marks the spot where half of you stop reading...

If you did manage to make it through the chapter, I would heart your opinions so very much. ;) Reviews keep me posting!


	9. stories

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

Warning: Don't be surprised by anything you read anymore. Once again, please no one hold me responsible for corruption of youth. :P

I played around with style on this one... Um, you'll see. I hope it makes enough sense. Thank you for tolerating her moves in the last chapter. Here's another one to make you question my mental sanity.

* * *

_There once was a girl who lived in a cramped basement apartment in the middle of a city._

_She lived with her mother, two brothers, and a cat._

_She wore her hair in ringlets and looked pretty in dresses._

_She played with Barbie dolls and ate candy canes when it wasn't Christmas._

_She was pretty happy, this girl, except for …_

… _her mother cried a lot, sometimes for days on end …_

_... and the pantry was never full._

_But that was okay. She loved her brothers dearly, even though one of them was genius smart while the other was pretty stupid, but the real genius was the girl._

_Like Snow White was the fairest, she was the brightest of them all._

xxxx

I walk to a gas station to buy a Pepsi, a candy bar, a pocketknife, a lighter and a pack of smokes. The gas station clerk looks up from her trashy romance novel and lets me buy all five items without a single word. It's late. She's seen worse clientele. She hardly bats an eye as I pull the money to pay her from my bra. She flips the book down and takes it. _Ding, ding, ding_, goes the cash register as rings in each item. The dings pierce my ears as bad as her heavy uneven breathing.

As she fishes me change out of the cash register drawer, I notice the chipped nail polish and dirt under her nails. I notice the frizzled hair haphazardly tossed into a bun, the "Carla" imprinted nametag, and the giant coffee stain on her uniform. The sloppy lipstick; the beady glazed over eyes; the mole with hair growing out of it on the left side corner of her chin… It seems to move, the deeper she breathes, and she frowns as she hands the change back to me, somehow knowing I just judged her for her grimy appearance.

But she just picks up the book and resumes reading, pretending I never walked in. I let her. This is her existence, albeit pathetic and dismal. I lead my own existence too. I should hope a little more exciting than hers, but in the end, only you are responsible for your own survival, and those around you, no matter how intelligent, grow more and more useless as time goes by. They can't breath for you, eat for you, take a shit for you, and they especially can't think for you.

I step out and light up almost instantly. Oh my God, the smoke tastes deadly—_amazing_. I let it sit in my lungs longer than I should and inhale too deeply every time, once again thinking of Curly. If that little shit ever calls me selfish again, I hope he realizes I think about him all the time. I worry. I know he won't smoke a normal cigarette in months. He'll smoke the leftover tobacco from the guards' tossed out butts in whatever thin paper he can find, and I don't know if his chemically altered brain can handle it. It handled it before, but this time... Could this time be different? As the generally accepted saying goes, you get wiser as you get older, but you also get less resilient. Any wise person should know that.

God, I wish that bastard were here. Tim too, even if he'd ask seven thousand questions, demanding how I got the money. Tim doesn't believe in magic or getting lucky. He wouldn't believe a single word of the elaborate stories I could tell him as to how I got the money.

I stick the cigarette between my lips and pull the flame out of the lighter by flicking it. Holding the flame with one thumb in my right hand, I cup my now free hand around it and savor the warmth. Jesus Christ, it's cold at night, even if it reaches ninety something in the daytime, and my fingers, even around the flame, feel numb as ice. My whole body is a damn ice cube.

I quit messing around with the lighter and walk on into the night. No destination, just my feet, one in front of the other, going somewhere or nowhere at all. I trek into unfamiliar territory—territory that belongs to other gangs that Tim would kill me for daring to step foot on—but Tim underestimates me and what I can do. He thinks he needs to protect me or something noble like that, but the only way he could really do that would be if he somehow disconnect my brain from the rest of me, because he can't stop my thoughts. He can yell at me, stop me from running away from him, even hit me, but can't stop my thoughts, and he can't stop me from dreaming up plans to get away from his careful watch.

He can't control me; he only likes to think he can.

xxxx

_The girl loved stories._

_Anything with a beginning, middle, and end._

_She loved the stories people told her out loud, but she loved the stories they told her without uttering a single word better._

_See, she could look at people and know what they were thinking like magic. _

_One look, and the story jumped out at her, seeping its way into her tiny little brain._

_These were the best kinds of stories for sure, but she liked other stories just fine. _

_She read thousands upon thousands of books from the library and watched every movie they put on the two channels her family's television could receive._

_When there were no available stories to devour, she wrote her own._

_Sometimes happy._

_Sometimes sad._

_Sometimes she just wrote the first words that came into her brain. _

_Sometimes she didn't write anything and drew a picture instead._

_Whatever she created was beautiful, intelligent and misunderstood by everyone except her._

_One day her mother found her artwork and asked her not to create such disturbing things._

_The lady cried._

_Cried._

_Cried. _

_Cried._

_Because somehow deep down she knew her daughter was a raging lunatic._

_The girl nodded her head to appease her bawling mother, but she never stopped writing; she never stopped drawing; she never stopped loving stories._

_She just grew more secretive about her activities as the years drew on._

_And her stories were never anyone's but her own._

xxxx

A homeless man across from me has four thousand conversations with himself all at once, and I sit against the side of a cold, tall, brick building, an unsafe distance from him, observing a fellow crazy interact with his environment.

Only he seems less aware that he is insane; whereas, I know I am.

He never looks at me, suddenly making him safer. He never looks at me because he's far too caught up in the inner workings of his brain, and I wonder why I bother watching him—why I bother sitting here in the first place—but mostly I just wonder what my mother or stepfather thinks I'm doing right now. Do they think I found shelter, food, peace of mind?

Do they think everything will just sort itself out from their kicking me out?

Do they know I sit near an insane old man?

Do they _know_ I fucked a thirty-one year old and blackmailed him for all the money in his wallet?

Do they think about me period?

As I sit here, freezing my goddamned ass off.

As I sit here, maybe dying.

I still breath, I still smoke, but existence feels at a standstill.

I dwell on all this, and I hope they're fucking happy.

xxxx

_The girl's mother seemed happy one day._

_She had a new boyfriend._

_Her brothers didn't like him. They hated him, they decided right away, so she decided she shouldn't like him either._

_She hated him too._

_And when she looked at him, the hate became real, no longer superficial, no longer "just because her brothers do"._

_When she looked at him, his story scared her._

_It said he had deep scars that wounded him and made him a terrible person, but her mother fell madly in love despite her children's opposition._

_The man came over all the time._

_When their mother was or wasn't home._

_Eventually he moved in and became "Daddy", but only their mother thought so._

_The children kept on hating him, especially the girl._

_She hated him the most because he played games._

_Games that were special._

_Games he said only he and she could play._

_Games he said must stay a secret forever and ever._

_Games that were nothing like the games she played with her friends or brothers._

_Games that made her scream on the inside._

_Games that hurt deep._

_Games only he could win._

xxxx

The homeless man falls asleep.

I smoke a succession of cigarettes, keeping the tiny pocketknife close. For now, I'm safe. As long as I don't sleep, I can be safe the entire night, but Tim would never be proud.

The air no longer feels as cold. I could live out here, I could, but the longer I sit, the more appealing being home becomes. I must weigh the pros and cons, and a warm bed tops my list. I may not sleep, I rarely ever do, but to be under the sheets in something familiar, something I know, sounds enticing.

_Weak_, my brain screams at me. _Weak. You can tolerate the pain now. The cold, it ain't so bad. _But it is. Just because the cool sensation is gone doesn't mean my teeth don't chatter, and when the sound of them clinking together grows too loud to bear, I spring up and run.

I run to the only place I can think to run.

xxxx

The man played games with the girl a long time.

For two years it goes on this way.

As long as he and the girl's mother remained together, but then one day, it came to an end.

Everything went back to the way it was.

Her mother resumed sadness and tears.

No food in the pantry.

One of her brothers was smart while the other remained dumb, but she was still the smartest.

xxxx

I linger on the porch for several minutes before Tim notices me.

He steps out the front door quietly and shuts is. "Jesus Christ, what're you doin' out here again?"

"I got kicked out, but…" I can't finish the sentence. I can't admit I wanted to go home.

He starts to rip me a new one. I pay little attention his words. The world is pretty dim right now.

Luckily he stops talking as fast as he started and lets me inside.

xxxx

_Some years later the girl's mother fell in love again. _

_This time she loved the man enough to marry him. _

_This time, they moved in with him, and he became "Daddy Number Two"._

_The girl, now wiser, wondered if this man would play games too, but he never did._

_He was too stupid to play games, even of the normal variety._

_He was too stupid to make her mother happy, so the sadness lingered on and on_ and on.

xxxx

In the privacy of my own room, I hide the cash and items I purchased in my bra and panty door, the one place I'm dead certain Tim would never look. I slip on pajamas and walk quietly to Tim's room. Tim is smart; if they see an empty bed, they'll assume I'm gone, and if they dare peak in his room, he'll have enough warning to fight back before they can reach me. We did this once before, the other time I got kicked out, and he told me then to never go far and he'd sneak me back in. The only problem is Tim doesn't come home every night. Tonight, I'm lucky. I'm lucky that when I ran back home on a whim, he was there to let me back in and help me put our plan in action.

I climb into Curly's empty bed and curl up under the covers. Tim tosses an extra blanket over me since I still shiver and walks over to his bed. I watch him, wondering if he'll try to lecture me at all tonight or if he'll just let me go to sleep.

He flicks the light off, which answers my question. I guess he knows it was out of my control.

Tonight it's not me he's mad at; it's only Mom and Earl, and tomorrow, he'll probably give them both an earful over it.

I inhale and exhale, relaxing on that thought.

He may not control me or my thoughts, but I suppose it's okay to let him do things on my behalf.

At least every once and a while.

xxxx

_The girl grew up and grew smarter every year she grew old._

_And she never forgot. She vowed that any games she played would always be on her own terms._

_But this is just a story, like the many others swarming around in her head._

_None of it is true._

_None of it really happened._

_It's fictitious._

_I made it up._

* * *

Reviews would be fantastic. Let me know who's reading! :)


	10. school

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

Thanks for reviews! Sorry it took forever to update...

* * *

I go to school for the first time in days.

Attending daily would be a slow painful death akin to prison. Call me arrogant, but I don't have the patience to sit in a classroom surrounded by idiots. I admire those who tolerate school, and even the select few who _love_ it. If your life is about kissing ass, I guess school is where it's at for you. You can kiss ass after ass, become teacher's pet, and worm your way to straight A's. Don't matter if you're stupid—if you kiss enough ass, you can go a long way. See, school's no place for the smart. No, it's just a giant contest to impress the teacher, and those who do, go the farthest.

Tim understands my dread. This whole "school" thing never liked him either, and he's never been about impressing anybody. Curly thinks he likes it; he hates the teachers and grades part of course, but for some reason, he gets a real kick out of making friends with everybody, and that social bullshit holds him enough he attends more than me and Tim combined. Sometimes I think me and Tim are more alike than we are different, because when it comes to school, we've both been done since day one. School and us are like oil and water, and we both feel we're smart enough to get on fine without it. No one in our neighborhood ever dies rich, so I guess it's true.

My first class is math, and as usual I arrive late. The distance between the classroom door and my feet feels longer with each step I take, and the way my eyes lock on that door feels like a tunnel sucking me into a trap I won't be able to tangle my way out of. The beating thump in my chest tells me I should just leave and make today another skip day. Did I mention how much I hate school?

I pause in front of the door. _Why brother, turn around and leave_. _You'll never graduate anyway_, my conscious screams, but I hear Tim's voice in the back of my head. It doesn't matter what he says; his angry tone rings perfectly clear in my ears, a reminder to create a little less hell for him. That's what he's always on about, you know_. I don't have time for your bullshit, Angela_, he'll say, but why is it that he always has the time to yell at me?

Every time he looks at me, I know he's trying to calculate my next move, so he can be one step ahead of me and end my fun. I think about this and despite my strong desire to bolt straight outside, I put my hand on knob. This, I realize, is the only way to get him off my back. If I scare the piss outa him by acting normal, in three weeks, maybe he'll ease up. The problem right now is Curly. With Curly gone, Tim is left with one sibling's ass to kick—_mine_—and I guess he's been playing catch up. He doesn't know about what happened a couple nights go, doesn't know about the money or anything I did, but he does know something went down and he won't leave me along because of that.

The sight of a silent classroom on test day greets me when I open the door. I step inside. The click of my heels against the floor makes a couple Soc-y girls' heads turn, but I make no effort to suppress the noise. I slide into my desk and smirk at the boy who leaned forward in a failed effort to get a peek up my skirt as I sat down. This is how I do school _if_ I go; I make a grand entrance and savor the chaos as it unfolds around me. Our ever courageous teacher, Mr. Norris, eyes me suspiciously from his desk, as if to question me why I'm late and furthermore why I haven't been here in days. I lift an eyebrow at him to see if he says or does anything. Mr. Norris is a little different than most teachers—a little younger, a little less in your face about everything, and ninety-nine percent of the student body thinks he's God's gift to man. Me? I don't know what to think of him. I don't hate him the way I do other teachers, but he's still a teacher, and by default, someone I don't get along with.

He scribbles something on a sheet of paper, gets up, and walks towards me. He sets the paper down on my desk. It's the test with words "see me after class" written at the top in red ink, underlined three times. Guess somebody means business.

I look up from the test and stare at him. He pulls a pencil out of his pocket and hands it to me with a perturbed look. _No excuses now, Angela_, his face reads. Huh, well, we'll see about that.

As he walks away, I shift my eyes down to the red ink of his lovely note. _No thanks to that, buddy, but thanks for the head's up_, I scrawl under it and sign my name in big fancy lettering. I'll be sure to hightail it out of here before he catches the chance to stop me too.

I glance over the test, twenty-five question review of long division, and begin to weigh my options. Though I understand long division enough to do it, I balk at the thought of putting myself through the effort. Not worth it, so that leaves me with writing the same wrong answer over and over again, but that gets old. I do all too often. Whenever there's a multiple choice test, I fill in A over and over again. Once a teacher made me retake a test, so I filled in B for each response instead. After that, she gave up. All of them do eventually, and they all pass me. As I've said before, so they don't have to put up with me again.

Oh, my report cards are fantastic. Failures all around until the last week when a D majestically replaces the F's. Sometimes maybe a C, and they almost always write the same words about me: _Angela is a very bright child, but she refuses to apply herself_. It's always some inflated bullshit to cover up what they really want to say to my mother: _Angela is the worst student I have ever had to deal with, and I pray that no sperm ever travels near your vagina again for fear a fourth Shepard child might make me put a bullet in my brain._ Man, I'd give someone an award for having the courage to say that.

I chew on the pencil and exhale loud enough the student in front of me flips around. Her bottle-enhanced blonde hair bounces on her shoulders, and her eyes trail down my face to my low-cut blouse. She wrinkles her nose at the site, so I adjust the shirt even lower in an effort to scare her. We know each other, her name is Marjorie or something, and we were maybe friends in Kindergarten. Wasn't everybody friends in Kindergarten? I don't know. I kick her desk once and wait for a reaction.

She sighs louder than I did and turns around. She pretends I never bothered her and takes the test like a good girl should, answering each question in perfect, uniform handwriting. Numbers three, seven and twelve are wrong, but still, what my mother wouldn't give to have a daughter like her. Mom holds on to this idea her kids were supposed be normal functioning members of society and tells us all the time she didn't raise us to act the way we do, but I'm the third child. She had three chances to get something right, and clearly she's fucking everything up.

Today I decide to humor Mr. Norris and solve exactly one problem, the extra credit question, the supposed hardest problem to solve. I work it out and double check it to be sure it's correct. It is, so I circle it and draw an arrow to the circle with the words, _If I can solve the hardest question, why should I be bothered with the rest of this bullshit? _next to it. I underline the question three times in the style of his note and flip the paper over.

Test. Complete.

When the bell rings, I make my break for it, but Mr. Norris is one step ahead this time.

He stands just outside the classroom and catches me. "Not so fast," he says, and I frown.

I cross my arms and follow him over to his desk.

He sits down and motions for me to sit in the student desk nearest his. I lean against it instead.

"You know how many days you miss so far, Angela?" He peers down at his attendance book and up at me. "Boy, looks like you've missed more than you've been here."

The way he speaks irritates me. He sounds cheerful or pleasant. I dunno. Either way, he sounds way too fucking happy when I do nothing but cause him endless trouble. "Yeah," I say. "I'm well aware."

He sighs and flips through the pile of tests until he reaches mine. He smiles at my note at the top and gives me a snide grin as if to tease me for his victory there, and then his eyes veer to the bottom note. He narrows his gaze, examines it once more and looks up, eyes glowing a mixture of shock and frustration. "That's right." He rubs his forward and points to it. "This's right. Tell me, Angela, if you can do this, why didn't you do the rest?"

I walk up to him and tap my finger down on the note. He gives me a look, so I circle the word _bullshit_ with my finger and step away from his desk.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and mouths something to himself. "Angela, Angela, Angela," he breathes and looks up at me. "See, sometimes we just have to do things we don't like, even if we think they're bull— well, not important. This is one those times. You can't tell me it'd be hard for you to do the rest of the problems."

"Maybe so, but you can't convince me it's worth my time."

"Then how about this?" he offers. "You agree to start coming to class again, and I'll see if I can't get you harder, more challenging work."

I shake my head. Still not worth it. Girls like me don't go to college. Good grades will get me nowhere. Being good gives me no edge when the people around me are bad.

"Angela, you best cooperate with me." He raises his voice now but only slightly. "I could have you sent to the principal's office for multiple things you did this morning, but I'm willing to work with you. Don't you forget that."

That's what they all say. Well, at least the most patient ones. Some know my brothers and give up before I give them a single reason to doubt me, but all of them eventually give up. It's only a matter of time.

"I think we could get along just fine if you gave me a chance," he goes on. "Your brother Tim and I got along just fine."

Tim? Get along with a teacher? Yeah, fat chance of that.

"I'm serious, go home and ask him about me if you like."

"Yeah, okay," I tell him, still skeptical.

"You think about what I said and give me an answer tomorrow, you hear?"

"Yeah." I turn around and bolt away, but about foot away from the door, something stops me.

I pivot to face to him once more. "I mean, _if_ I come tomorrow," I add, certain I won't, but his refusal to lose his cool intrigues me, and I feel the need to let him know I _will_ blow him off. It sounds crazy. How courteous of me to warn someone I will be rude, but seems like the thing to do.

My English teacher likes to ramble about irony in novels, but this right here, this is real irony.

I watch him close. He makes no attempts to keep here or stop me; he just gives me one hard nod and lets me walk away.

* * *

Please review! I know this chapter was less exciting than others (hopefully not too boring), and I know we're all busy with the start of school/end of summer, but please take a minute? It keeps the motivation to post high and the urge to take a hiatus low!


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